I helped Emily stand. She hissed in pain. Her knees were mottled with bruises from kneeling on stone. Then I saw older yellow-purple marks beneath her sleeve, shaped like fingertips.
This had not happened once.
This had been happening.
I looked at my mother.
“How long?” I asked.
She stared at the floor.
“I asked you a question. How long has this been happening in my house?”
Karen stepped forward. “Your mother knows I have only tried to help your wife adjust. Emily is fragile. She needs discipline. Structure. She invents stories and—”
“Do not say my name again.”
My own voice sounded colder than I recognized.
Karen froze.
“Lauren,” I said, still watching my mother. “Take Emily upstairs. Run a warm bath if she can tolerate it. Do not leave her alone.”
Lauren nodded and wrapped an arm around Emily.
My mother reached toward my wife, perhaps out of guilt, perhaps for performance.
Emily recoiled so violently she almost fell.
My mother’s hand froze in midair. Shame flooded her face.
That was when the second truth hit me. Emily wasn’t only afraid of Karen.
She was afraid of my mother.
When Lauren guided Emily upstairs, I turned back to the two women left in my living room.
“I want the truth,” I said.