Our daughter had been born at 30 weeks, weighing barely three pounds. She was alive, but fighting in the NICU. The burns on my abdomen required skin grafts and months of treatment. Third-degree burns, the doctor said, looking at Tyler with barely concealed disgust when he finally explained what had happened.

My husband’s first words to me in recovery weren’t about our daughter or my injuries.

“Mom’s really upset that you called the ambulance. She thinks you overreacted.”

Something inside me crystallized in that moment. It wasn’t anger exactly. It was clarity. This man had chosen his mother’s convenience over his wife’s life and his daughter’s survival. He’d watched me collapse in agony and blamed me for it.

“Get out,” I whispered through the pain medication haze.

“What?”

“Get out of my room. Don’t come back.”