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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.<\/p>\n
My husband\u2019s first words to me in recovery weren\u2019t about our daughter or my injuries.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom\u2019s really upset that you called the ambulance. She thinks you overreacted.\u201d<\/p>\n
Something inside me crystallized in that moment. It wasn\u2019t anger exactly. It was clarity. This man had chosen his mother\u2019s convenience over his wife\u2019s life and his daughter\u2019s survival. He\u2019d watched me collapse in agony and blamed me for it.<\/p>\n
\u201cGet out,\u201d I whispered through the pain medication haze.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGet out of my room. Don\u2019t come back.\u201d<\/p>\n