Not the kind of violence that leaves fists raised or furniture smashed on purpose. This violence had been quieter. It had been a choice. A choice made hours earlier by people who walked out the door with shopping bags on their minds while I begged not to be left behind.
Three hours later, my twin daughters were delivered by emergency C-section at Mercy General.
They were tiny.
Fragile.
But alive.
Both of them.
The first time I heard them cry, I broke down completely. Not because of the pain. Not because of fear. But because they had survived the people who were supposed to protect them.
Later, the surgeon told me that if I had arrived thirty or forty minutes later, one or both babies might not have survived.
I stared at the ceiling after he left.
Then I asked for my phone.
Part 2:
I did not call Blake.
I did not call his mother, Diane.
I called my attorney.
Blake came home at 9:47 that night.
He still had mall bags hanging from his arms. Diane walked in behind him, laughing about something. His sister carried three shopping bags. His father held a box of new shoes.
Then the front door swung open fully, and all of them froze.
The house was dark.
The living room looked like a scene no one had cleaned up yet. Blood stained the carpet. Papers covered the floor. A lamp lay broken beside the couch. An emergency wrapper from the paramedics had been left near the hallway.
No television.
No lights.
No sound.
No me.
No babies.
Blake dropped his keys.
