The words looked different now.
Going home could not simply mean returning to the same house and the same rules.
Surviving the crash would mean nothing if I carried Emma back into a life where she learned that love required silence.
I tightened my grip on the rail and remembered the twisted metal.
I remembered broken glass shining beneath emergency lights.
I remembered opening my eyes beneath the operating-room lights and promising myself I would make it home to my daughter.
I had survived an impact strong enough to break both legs and fracture my ribs.
I had survived surgery, sleepless nights, and the terror of not knowing whether I would walk normally again.
I would not let Caleb drag me out of that bed simply because my recovery was costing him money.
He drew his arm back again.
The monitor shrieked.
His fist started moving toward me—and the silver handle on my hospital door suddenly turned.
