For several seconds, Daniel could not understand what he was seeing.
His mind searched for an explanation.
Anything.
Something simple.
Something that would make the last few weeks make sense.
But there was no simple explanation.
Rachel’s legs were covered in dark bruises.
Not one.
Not two.
Dozens.
Some were fading yellow and purple, while others were newer, still visible beneath the soft bedroom light. There were marks around her ankles and along her thighs, places that could not possibly have come from pregnancy discomfort or a restless night.
Daniel’s hand fell away from the quilt.
The air left his lungs.
“Rachel…”
His voice barely existed.
She immediately covered herself, pulling the blanket back toward her with shaking hands.
“I’m sorry.”
Those two words broke something inside him.
Not because she had done something wrong.
Because she was apologizing for being hurt.
“Why are you saying sorry?” Daniel whispered.
Rachel looked away.
“Because this is my fault.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“No, Rachel. Don’t say that.”
Behind him, Margaret remained silent.
Too silent.
Daniel turned slowly.
His mother was no longer wearing the confident expression she had carried into the room.
The certainty was gone.
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