Every day he not only beat me but also poured boiling water on me, roaring, ""I'll boil your belly until a son comes out!""

The next morning, the door to my hospital room swung open, and a candy striper walked in carrying a massive, expensive crystal vase overflowing with pristine white roses.

She checked the tag and smiled. "Delivery for Caroline. They’re beautiful!"

She set them on the rolling table and left. Evelyn, who had been reading a magazine in the corner chair, instantly stood up. Her eyes locked onto the small, elegant card tucked into the blooms.

I reached out with my unburned, bandaged hand and flipped the card open.

I forgive you. Come home when you’re ready. Love, Luke.

A surge of pure, unadulterated revulsion hit the back of my throat. It was classic Luke. Even after pouring boiling water on me, even after being escorted out by security, he was framing himself as the benevolent, forgiving patriarch. He was trying to rewrite the narrative before the ink even dried.

Evelyn looked at me, her jaw clenched. "Do you want me to throw them in the trash?"

"No," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Throw them in the biohazard bin. Where toxic waste belongs."

Evelyn grabbed the vase without a word, marched out into the hallway, and I heard the satisfying thud of the heavy trash receptacle down the corridor.

When she returned, Dana, the social worker, walked in right behind her. Dana was holding a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen.

"I brought you this," Dana said, setting it on my lap. "When you’re stuck in a hospital bed, the unknown can eat you alive. Use this for your questions. Whenever you think of something you want answered, write it down. You don't have to solve it today."

I opened the book. The first page was crisp and blank.

I picked up the pen and, with a shaking hand, wrote my first question: Where did my babies go?