Lily was sitting on the cold floor, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. Her yellow dress was wrinkled. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and a red mark stretched across one side of her face. There were finger marks on her little arms—not big, not dramatic enough for a stranger to gasp at—but enough for any father to understand that something awful had just happened.
I knelt down in front of her.
“Sweetheart, who did this to you?”
Lily looked down.
“Please don’t be mad, Daddy.”
That sentence hurt worse than any scream.
When I reached out to hold her, she flinched like she was expecting another hit.
My little girl had never pulled away from me before.
I picked her up carefully. Her small hands clung to my neck, shaking.
In that moment, I remembered Claire lying pale in her hospital bed, squeezing my hand with the little strength she still had.
