MY HUSBAND POURED BOILING WATER ON ME, DEMANDING A…
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
My sister began crying.
“I knew it. I knew something was wrong.”
Luke stepped forward.
“That is enough.”
The nurse immediately moved between us.
“Sir, step back.”
For the first time, I saw uncertainty in Luke’s eyes.
He wasn’t used to being told no.
Not by doctors.
Not by nurses.
Certainly not by me.
The doctor walked back into the room carrying another folder.
“Mr. Carter, I need you to leave while we complete our examination.”
Luke shook his head.
“She’s my wife.”
“She is also my patient.”
“I have the right to be here.”
The doctor looked directly at him.
“You will have the opportunity to speak with hospital administration. Right now, I am asking you to leave.”
He stared at her.
Then at me.
His expression hardened.
“You’re making a mistake, Caroline.”
I said nothing.
He leaned toward me one last time.
“You won’t survive without me.”
The door closed behind him.
And somehow, the room became easier to breathe in.
The doctor waited until his footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
Then she pulled a chair beside my bed.
“Caroline, I need to ask you some questions.”
I nodded.
“Has Luke ever hurt you before?”
I looked at the ceiling.
How could I explain five years in one sentence?
“He has.”
“How often?”
I hesitated.
“Almost every day.”
The nurse stopped writing.
The doctor remained completely still.
“What kind of injuries?”
“Bruises. Broken fingers. Burns.”
“Has he ever prevented you from seeking medical attention?”
“Yes.”
“Has he ever forced you to take medication or denied you medication?”
“Yes.”
“Has he ever threatened you?”
I almost laughed.
“Every day.”
The doctor looked down at her notes.
Then she asked the question that made my entire body go cold.
“Caroline, how many pregnancies have you had?”
I stared at her.
“I don’t know.”
She looked surprised.
“I thought you were told you were infertile.”
“That was what Luke told me.”
“Did you ever receive medical confirmation?”
“No.”
“From a doctor?”
“Luke always took me.”
The doctor slowly closed the folder.
“Did you ever see the actual test results?”
“No.”
She exchanged a glance with the nurse.
Then she opened another file.
“These records were transferred from three different clinics.”
My heart began pounding.
“What records?”
“Pregnancy-related visits.”
I stared at her.
“There are multiple.”
My mouth went dry.
“How many?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Five documented pregnancies.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
She turned the papers toward me.
The dates were listed one after another.
I recognized them.
Every one.
The months when I had suddenly become sick.
The nights Luke had insisted I had suffered another miscarriage.
The mornings when he told me not to ask questions.
The doctor continued carefully.
“Based on the records, you were pregnant five times.”
I shook my head.
“Luke told me I wasn’t.”
“He was wrong.”
“No.”
“He wasn’t wrong by accident.”
The room went silent.
The doctor lowered her voice.
“The records indicate that every one of those pregnancies was male.”
My fingers curled around the blanket.
Sons.
The children Luke had screamed about.
The children he had blamed me for not giving him.
The children he claimed my body could never carry.
All of them had been there.
Inside me.
I started crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
The tears simply came.
I remembered one pregnancy in particular.
I had been eleven weeks along.
Luke had come home angry after drinking.
He had accused me of hiding money.
When I told him I was pregnant, he had stared at me for several seconds.
Then he said,
“If it’s another girl, I’ll make sure you never get pregnant again.”
Two days later, I was bleeding.
