Chapter 3 - The ambulance
Two patrol officers entered first.
Then paramedics.
Dad arrived four minutes later.
He did not rush through the door dramatically.
An officer stopped him outside.
Good.
He stayed there until they allowed him in.
I was still on the floor.
A paramedic named Lisa knelt beside me.
She touched my ankle gently.
I nearly screamed.
“Don’t move it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
She smiled slightly.
“Good.”
They splinted my leg.
Checked circulation.
Blood pressure.
Pulse.
Asked whether I had hit my head.
No.
Any loss of consciousness?
No.
Any abdominal pain?
No.
Any neck pain?
Minor.
My wrist already showed red marks where David had held it.
My lower back hurt from the island.
My right leg was the problem.
Emma stood with Dad by then.
She refused to release his hand.
When paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher, she started crying again.
I reached toward her.
“Mommy’s okay.”
That was not entirely true.
But I was alive.
And speaking.
At the hospital, imaging showed a fracture near my right ankle involving the distal fibula with associated ligament injury.
Painful.
Serious enough for immobilization and later orthopedic follow-up.
No exposed bone.
No crushed joint.
No emergency surgery that afternoon.
I was lucky.
People later argued online over whether a broken leg counted as “serious.”
I stopped reading.
Pain does not require public voting.
The emergency physician photographed bruising only after obtaining my consent and coordinating with law enforcement documentation.
A nurse asked the standard domestic-violence questions without David present.
Did he hit me?
He shoved me.
Had he done it before?
Not like that.
Had he ever prevented me from leaving?
Once.
Had he ever taken my phone during an argument?
Twice.
Had he threatened to kill me?
No.
Threatened Emma?
No.
Was there a weapon in the home?
Yes.
David owned two firearms locked in a safe.
Had he displayed them during arguments?
No.
The questions were clinical.
Not sensational.
That helped me answer.
Then the nurse asked:
“Do you feel safe going home?”
I started crying.
Because until she asked, I had been imagining returning.
Some part of me still thought:
The house is mine too.
Emma’s bed is there.
My clothes.
My kitchen.
My life.
Then I pictured David standing over me.
Margaret sipping wine.
“Now look what you made him do.”
May you like
I answered:
“No.”
