Then he told me he had read online that changing the baby’s position could change what came out.
Even now, saying the sentence aloud made it sound impossible.
At the time, Daniel said it with complete confidence.
He led me toward the unfinished utility room at the back of the house, where an old wooden beam crossed the ceiling above the washer and dryer.
I saw the rope only after he shut the door.
I told the staff member I had begged him to stop.
I told her he called my fear proof that I did not believe in him.
I told her I remembered the concrete floor moving above my head, the metal side of the washing machine catching the light, and Daniel repeating that a wife who loved her husband would give him a son.
I did not describe every moment.
I did not need to.
The scans, the ankle marks, and Daniel’s own words in the hallway already carried the parts my voice could not.
