The phone rang, and my daughter’s voice broke through tears. “Mommy… Daddy’s girlfriend’s boyfriend hit me again. He said if I tell you, he’ll hurt you too.”
The trembling voice of my eight-year-old daughter, Emma, echoed through the phone like glass shattering. My hand froze midair, coffee spilling across the hotel desk. I was five hundred miles away in Chicago for a work trip, but in that moment, the distance felt like a canyon I could never cross fast enough.
“Sweetheart, where are you? Are you safe right now?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“He’s in the kitchen. Daddy’s watching TV,” she whispered. I could hear muffled sobs, and then—a man’s voice in the background, sharp and angry.
“Who are you talking to?” he barked. Then silence.
My heart stopped. “Emma? Emma!”
I immediately called my ex-husband, Mark. He answered on the second ring, sounding irritated.
“Jessica, what the hell is this about now? Emma said some nonsense before hanging up on me.”
