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Vivian looked at my leg brace, my bruised face, and the hospital bracelet still around my wrist.
“You heard me. The master bedroom is too far for you anyway. Stairs are dangerous.”
“There are no stairs to our bedroom.”
Her lips curved.
“Exactly. Too comfortable.”
I turned to Daniel and begged him to tell her to stop, but he would not even look at me. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, like a child waiting for permission to breathe. Vivian stepped closer, her expensive perfume sharp and suffocating, telling me I had been dramatic since the accident and always made everything about pain. I tightened my grip on the crutches and reminded her that the doctor had said I could not put weight on my leg.
“And I said move,” she replied.
“This is my house.”
Her eyes flashed. Then her slipper swept sideways, and the crutch flew out from under me. My body dropped hard. The hardwood rushed up, my injured leg twisted beneath me, and white-hot pain shot from my hip to my ankle. I screamed until my throat burned.
Daniel finally moved, but not to help me. He grabbed me by the throat, his fingers pressing beneath my jaw, his wedding ring cold against my skin. Then he leaned down until his breath touched my ear.
“Mom wants the master bedroom,” he whispered. “So you’re sleeping in the garage.”
For one second, the pain became silence—not because it stopped, but because something inside me did. Vivian laughed softly and said I still thought I mattered. Then they dragged me by my arms across the hallway. My cast hit the doorframe, and I nearly blacked out. Daniel avoided my eyes, but Vivian watched every gasp like she enjoyed it.
The garage smelled of oil, dust, and cold concrete. They dumped me there like broken furniture. I rasped for my medicine and my phone, but Vivian held up my phone, smiled, and dropped it into her purse. Daniel stood in the doorway and told me not to make things uglier.