The siren reached our street before my father finished his call.
I heard it through the open doorway, growing louder until the sound filled the quiet morning.
Charles turned toward the window.
For once, he seemed unsure what to do next.
Courtney stood beside Lucas's desk with her arms folded.
“What did they say?”
He held up his hand.
“Not now.”
I watched him from the porch.
My knee throbbed, and the boards beneath me felt cold through my thin clothes.
I wanted to get inside.
Not because I wanted to see my father.
I wanted the warmth of my kitchen, the chair beside the table, and the familiar smell of Lucas's coffee grounds.
Mostly, I wanted someone to tell me that my baby was all right.
A vehicle stopped outside.
Then I heard a door slam.
Samantha was still on the phone with me.
“Victoria, can you see the emergency responders?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them exactly what happened. Don't minimize anything to protect your father.”
I looked at the doorway.
For years, I had learned to soften the truth about Charles.
If he shouted, I said he was upset.
If he insulted me, I said he had a difficult personality.
If he hurt my feelings, I blamed myself for being too sensitive.
I was tired of doing that.
“He pulled me by my hair,” I said. “He threw me outside.”
“Tell them that.”
Two emergency responders appeared at the front of the house.
One came directly toward me while the other looked through the doorway.
The first knelt beside me.
“I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”
“Victoria Gallagher.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Eight months.”
He glanced at the wet fabric around my legs.
“Has your water broken?”
“Yes.”
His expression became serious.
“Okay. We're going to take care of you.”
I nearly cried at those words.
Not because they were especially comforting.
Because he had asked about my condition before asking about the property.
He helped me adjust my position and checked whether I could move my legs comfortably.
His partner called out from inside.
“Sir, I need you to come over here.”
Charles appeared in the doorway.
He looked at the responder, then at me.
For one second, our eyes met.
I waited for him to say something.
Anything.
He could have asked whether I was hurt.
He could have said he was sorry.
Instead, he looked away.
The responder beside me noticed.
“Were you the person involved in the incident?”
Charles started speaking before I could answer.
“This is a family disagreement.”
The words made my stomach tighten.
A disagreement was an argument over money.
A disagreement was two people refusing to apologize.
It wasn't a man pulling his pregnant daughter across a house by her hair.
I spoke before he could continue.
“He grabbed me and dragged me out.”
The responder looked at Charles.
“Sir, please stay where you are.”
My father opened his mouth.
Then he closed it.
Courtney appeared behind him.
She had lost some of her earlier confidence, but she still looked more annoyed than frightened.
I wondered whether she was angry about the responders or about the fact that I had survived long enough to tell them what happened.
The medical team helped me onto a stretcher.
When they lifted me, pain shot through my knee and across my lower back.
I gripped the side rail.
“Please be careful.”
“We've got you,” the responder said.
I looked toward the house one last time before they moved me.
The folder was still on the kitchen table.
Lucas's chair stood beside it.
My father was near the doorway, watching strangers take me away from the home he had tried to claim.
He didn't come closer.
He didn't reach for my hand.
I had spent most of my life hoping that one day Charles would look at me and see his daughter before he saw someone he could control.
That morning, I finally stopped waiting.
The ambulance doors closed.
The sound of them shutting was solid and final.
I held my phone against my chest while the medical team prepared to take me to the hospital.
Samantha's voice came through the speaker.
“Victoria, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I'll handle the calls from here. You concentrate on yourself and the baby.”
I looked at the ceiling.
For the first time that morning, I let someone else take responsibility for what happened next.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: At the Hospital, I Learned That Lucas Had Prepared for More Than His Own Death, and My Father Had Been Asking Questions for Days
Three Weeks After My Husband Died, My Father Walked Into My Kitchen and Told Me I No Longer Belonged There
Part 5 of 24
