First, he had dragged me into the hallway while my clothes were still partly down.
First, my shoulder had hit the doorframe.
First, his mother had thrown my crying baby onto blankets.
Then I had crawled toward my son.
Then I had used the stool.
Then I had shoved her away.
Then I had locked the bathroom door.
The order mattered.
They knew it too.
For the first time, though, they did not seem to realize how clearly I could hear them through that thin door.
My baby began to settle against me.
His screaming slowed.
One tiny hand caught in the fabric of my shirt.
I stayed on the floor.
I did not try to stand before I had to.
The shoulder pain sharpened whenever I shifted, so I kept him supported against my chest and answered each question the dispatcher asked.
Outside, my husband and his mother stayed close.
The house had become divided by one locked bathroom door.
On my side was a three-day-old baby, my phone, the stool I had used to get back to him, and the hospital band still wrapped around my bruised arm.
On the other side were the two people who had already taken my keys and were now rehearsing what they planned to say about me.
