Chapter 3 - THE EMERGENCY ROOMSophie did not need stitches.
That was the first good news.
There were two shallow nicks near her scalp.
One behind her left ear.
One at the hairline above her neck.
The pediatric emergency physician believed they were consistent with scissors or fingernails but could not say exactly which.
Her scalp was tender from traction.
No head injury.
No concussion.
No significant neck trauma.
Physically, she was going to heal.
The hair was harder to quantify.
The doctor did not try.
A social worker came.
Then a child-safety specialist.
Then a detective.
I answered the same questions repeatedly.
Claudia had gone to another hospital for evaluation after my kick.
She had a large bruise on her thigh and hip.
No fracture.
Her lawyer later used photographs of it.
Fair.
I had put it there.
Detective Maria Lopez asked:
“When you kicked Claudia, was she actively holding your daughter’s hair?”
“Yes.”
“Were the scissors open?”
“Yes.”
“Were they near Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“How near?”
“Maybe six inches when I first saw them. Closer when she reached again.”
“Could you have grabbed your daughter instead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you have grabbed Claudia’s arm?”
“Maybe. I was afraid of the scissors.”
“Did you intend to injure your wife?”
“I intended to get her away from Sophie.”
That answer was honest.
Not perfect.
Honest.
Sophie lay beside us with a hospital blanket around her shoulders.
She had asked for the mirror to be removed.
A nurse turned it toward the wall.
I hated how much that small act affected me.
Detective Lopez asked:
“Has anything like this happened before?”
My mouth opened.
Then stopped.
Because I did not know.
That realization frightened me.
I had been living in the same house.
May you like
I was Sophie’s father.
And I did not know.
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