As the transport vehicle sped towards the hospital, my mind was a whirlwind of anger, determination, and a touch of fear. I was furious at the people who dared to harm my daughter, and even more enraged at the system that tried to keep me from her. My hands shook slightly, not from weakness, but from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. This was not merely a trip to see my injured child; this was a mission of justice, and I was ready to execute it with military precision.
Upon arrival at the hospital, I was escorted directly to the ICU. The sight of my daughter, frail and broken, nearly brought me to my knees. Her face was a tapestry of bruises, each one telling a story of betrayal and pain. Her sobs were like knives, cutting through the sterile hospital air and embedding themselves in my heart. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread. “He said I fell… but I didn’t. His mother… she just watched.”
I held her hand, the skin soft and warm against my calloused palms. “I know, sweetheart. I’m here now. They won’t ever hurt you again.”
