Officer Martinez, a woman with eyes that looked like they had seen enough domestic violence excuses to fill a library, wasn’t buying what Gary was selling. She took one look at me on the floor, blood spotting my gown, nurses checking my incision, and her jaw set in a way that promised someone was about to have a very bad day.

But then, my mom found her voice. Not to save me, but to defend him. She stammered out excuses about how stressed Gary was with the bills. Her words defended him, but her eyes—wide, darting, terrified—screamed something else. Fear. Exhaustion. She had aged a decade in the three years since marrying him, and not gracefully. It was the aging of constant cortisol, of never knowing which version of her husband would walk through the door.

Mrs. Chen, my eighty-three-year-old roommate recovering from hip surgery, wasn’t having it. She pressed her call button repeatedly, demanding to give a witness statement.

“I survived the Cultural Revolution!” she shouted at the officers, pointing a trembling finger at Gary. “I know a tyrant when I see one! I will not stay quiet while this bowling league reject terrorizes a young woman!”