He drove straight to the hospital.
When the nurse saw my condition, they called a doctor immediately.
The report clearly stated: worsening post-surgical pain due to strain, scalp injury from hair pulling, and signs consistent with physical coercion of a recent surgical patient.
While they treated me and soothed Ava, Ethan called the police.
That same night, I gave my statement.
I repeated every word my mother, father, and sister had said.
Ethan handed over the photos, medical report, and messages Lauren had sent in the days before—messages where she insisted her son “deserved the best room” and that I was “just in the way.”
When officers asked why I was staying there, Ethan explained.
Our home was still under repair, and I believed my parents would support me.
What they didn’t know—and what my family had hidden—was that the apartment wasn’t truly theirs.
Seven years earlier, my father’s business collapsed. They were about to lose the apartment.
Ethan and I, newly married at the time, took out a loan, paid the debt, and bought it ourselves.
The ownership was in our names.
My parents had been living there out of our goodwill.
Rent-free.
With the simple expectation of basic respect.