Emily finally looked up at me. What I saw in her eyes nearly emptied my lungs. Relief. Terror. And one final broken fear—that I might believe them over her.
“Did she force you to do this?” I asked quietly.
Emily’s eyes darted over my shoulder.
Before she could answer, Karen cut in. “Your wife has been extremely emotional. You know how women get in the final trimester. She said she felt dirty and insisted on cleaning herself. I was only supervising.”
I released Emily’s wrists and stood.
I rose slowly enough that the room seemed to lose all sound. When I turned to face Karen, she took half a step back.
“You were supervising,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“By calling her disgusting?”
Karen blinked.
“By telling her no one in this family would ever believe the word of an orphan?”
Her mask slipped.
Only for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.
Lauren returned and wrapped the blanket around Emily’s shoulders. My mother came back with a towel and warm water, but she would not look at me.
I helped Emily stand. She hissed in pain. Her knees were mottled with bruises from kneeling on stone. Then I saw older yellow-purple marks beneath her sleeve, shaped like fingertips.
This had not happened once.
This had been happening.
I looked at my mother.
“How long?” I asked.
She stared at the floor.
“I asked you a question. How long has this been happening in my house?”
Karen stepped forward. “Your mother knows I have only tried to help your wife adjust. Emily is fragile. She needs discipline. Structure. She invents stories and—”
“Do not say my name again.”
My own voice sounded colder than I recognized.
Karen froze.
“Lauren,” I said, still watching my mother. “Take Emily upstairs. Run a warm bath if she can tolerate it. Do not leave her alone.”
Lauren nodded and wrapped an arm around Emily.
My mother reached toward my wife, perhaps out of guilt, perhaps for performance.
Emily recoiled so violently she almost fell.
My mother’s hand froze in midair. Shame flooded her face.
That was when the second truth hit me. Emily wasn’t only afraid of Karen.
She was afraid of my mother.
When Lauren guided Emily upstairs, I turned back to the two women left in my living room.
“I want the truth,” I said.
Karen folded her arms. “The truth is your wife is unstable.”
A laugh rose in my throat. It sounded like metal tearing.