Chapter 2: The Shape of the Bruise
⬇️ **PART 2**
I sat on the edge of the bed.
My hands were in my lap.
I didn't know what to do with them.
Hannah didn't sit.
She stood with her back against that door like she was holding it shut against something.
"How long?" I asked.
She looked at the floor.
"Han.
How long has it been like this?"
"It's not — it's not always bad."
That sentence.
I will never unhear it.
"What does bad look like?"
She didn't answer right away.
She pulled the sleeve of that gray dress down over her wrist.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
I stood up.
"Show me."
"Mom—"
"Hannah.
Show me."
She went very still.
Then slowly, she pushed the sleeve up.
There was a bruise on the inside of her forearm.
Old enough to be yellow at the edges.
The shape of it was not from a fall.
I couldn't speak.
I just looked at it.
"He doesn't — it's not every day," she said quietly.
"He gets stressed.
He says he doesn't mean it."
From the front of the house, we heard the door open.
Craig's voice.
Calling her name.
Cheerful.
Normal.
Hannah yanked the sleeve back down and grabbed my hand.
"Mom.
You cannot say anything tonight.
Promise me.
If he thinks I told you—"
Her eyes finished the sentence.
---
What Hannah said next stopped me cold — and what I found out about Craig in the days that followed was worse than anything I imagined.
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