Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR
Physical recovery was slower than legal discovery.
That annoyed me.
Evidence moved faster than skin.
Doctors removed dressings.
Replaced them.
Measured healing.
Discussed grafts.
Compression garments.
Scar management.
Words that sounded clinical until attached to your own body.
The first time I saw my shoulder fully uncovered, I cried for forty minutes.
Not because I thought scars made me ugly.
Because they were proof that someone I slept beside had decided my body was an acceptable price for access to property.
There is a difference.
---
My occupational therapist was Mara Chen.
She had no patience for self-pity disguised as discipline.
One morning I refused to practice lifting my left arm.
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“Common.”
I glared.
She smiled.
Then:
“What are you afraid will happen if you try?”
I stared.
“That I won't be able to.”
“There.”
Not pain.
Failure.
I tried.
Three inches.
Then five.
Then seven.
I cried.
Mara said:
“Good.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Also common.”
---
Julian sent me a letter.
Not through counsel.
Personal.
Sarah almost confiscated it.
I read it.
He apologized for “how things escalated.”
Not pushing me.
Escalated.
He said he had been under unimaginable pressure.
Said Evelyn had encouraged him.
Said he never meant the burns to be “that serious.”
That line turned my stomach.
How serious had he intended?
Enough to frighten me?
Enough to make me dependent?
Enough to get a signature?
At the end:
If you stop the criminal process, I’ll give up any claim to the house.
I laughed.
Then handed it to Sarah.
“Can he do that?”
“Do what?”
“Trade my house for silence?”
“He can propose many stupid things.”
“Useful?”
“Very.”
Possible attempt to influence a witness or victim, depending on exact legal context.
She preserved it.
Julian kept generating evidence.
May you like
I stopped needing to help.
---
