It’s a quiet evening, and the soft clinking of silverware fills the dining room as you and your daughter sit down for dinner. You’ve noticed something is off—she’s been distant for days, but tonight, it’s different. Her once bright smile is gone, and she keeps her head down, her hair covering most of her face. She picks at her food, avoiding your gaze, her movements slow and tense.

“Sweetheart, are you okay? You’ve barely touched your dinner,” you say softly, trying to keep the concern out of your voice.

She flinches at your words, her fork stopping mid-motion. For a moment, she doesn’t respond, her eyes fixed on her plate. Then, almost as if deciding to give up the pretense, she brushes her hair away from her face, revealing a dark bruise along her cheekbone.

Your heart stops. The sight of the bruise sends a surge of shock and anger flooding through you. “What—what happened?” you ask, your voice a mix of disbelief and fury, though you try to keep calm for her sake.

She flinches again at the intensity in your voice, her eyes finally meeting yours, filled with fear and shame. Her lips tremble as she tries to find the words, and it feels like forever before she speaks.

“Dad… it’s Jason. He… he did this,” she says, barely above a whisper.

The room seems to close in on you. Her words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, like a punch to the gut. The anger inside you is instant, raw and fierce, but so is the overwhelming need to protect her. You want to say something, but the words are caught in your throat. Instead, you stand up, moving to her side of the table.