The afternoon light cast a deceptively peaceful glow over the house. I was tying a Windsor knot for Lily’s first piano recital when my phone buzzed:
“Dad, can you help with my dress zipper? Just you. Close the door.”
The precision froze me. Something was wrong.
I entered her room. The recital dress lay untouched. Lily stood by the window, pale, gripping her phone.
“I lied about the zipper,” she whispered. “Check something. But promise you won’t freak out.”
She lifted her shirt. Across her back were bruises—fresh and old, shaped like handprints.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“Grandpa Roger… since February. Mom knows. She said I’m exaggerating.”
Claire, downstairs humming, knew. She chose her father over our daughter.
I checked the clock. Fifteen minutes before we were supposed to leave. “Pack your backpack, tablet, charger, and Elphie. We’re leaving. Now.”
“But the recital!”
“Your safety comes first,” I said.
I called my sister Vanessa. She understood immediately. “Don’t stop for anything.”
Downstairs, Claire tried to block us. “You’re overreacting!”
“This is abuse. I’m the only parent acting like one,” I said. I scooped Lily up, past her, past the deadbolt, into the cool evening air.
I didn’t look back. She finally breathed. The recital was over—but the fight for her life had just begun.