The front door creaked open, and my husband, Daniel, appeared in the doorway, his face instantly shifting from a casual calm to sheer panic at the scene before him. He rushed over, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the chaos—the soup splattered across the floor, the empty pot in Patricia’s grip, and me, crumpled on the tiles, still crying out in pain.
“Emma!” he shouted, skidding to his knees by my side. “What happened?” His hands hovered over me, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse.
Through the haze of pain, I managed to gasp, “Hospital. Please.”
