Chapter 2 - The pregnancy came first
My father wanted to question Wesley immediately.
I stopped him.
“Hospital.”
Augusto looked at me.
“Did the table hit you?”
“No.”
“Did you fall?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we go.”
No argument.
At obstetric triage, the nurse placed monitors around my abdomen.
The baby’s heart rate was reassuring.
No bleeding.
No contractions.
No fluid loss.
No direct abdominal trauma.
Dr. Naomi Mercer, my obstetrician, examined me and said:
“The stress and sudden movement are worth monitoring, but right now I’m not seeing evidence of injury to the pregnancy.”
Good.
Not:
Your baby almost died.
Not:
One more second would have been catastrophic.
Reality was frightening enough.
Then my wrist.
Mild soreness from restraining Wesley.
No injury.
His injuries?
Police later documented:
Bruised cheek.
Sore shoulder from striking bar.
No fracture.
No head injury.
Then my father’s slap.
Also reviewed.
He had struck Wesley after the immediate threat to me had ended.
That mattered.
Augusto gave a full statement.
No influence.
No phone calls to make it disappear.
He said:
“I slapped him.”
The officer asked:
“Why?”
“He threatened my pregnant daughter.”
“Was he attacking her at the moment you struck?”
“No.”
The officer wrote it down.
My father looked annoyed.
I said:
“Good.”
He stared at me.
“You approve?”
May you like
“I approve of you telling the truth.”
That would become important later.
