The pounding on my front door jolted me awake. It wasn’t the kind of knock you sleep through — it was frantic, desperate. I stumbled out of bed, heart racing, robe half-tied, and heard my daughter’s voice breaking through the dark.

“Mom, please! Open up!”

When I swung the door open, I froze. Emily stood there trembling, one hand on her nine-month-pregnant belly, blood running from a cut above her eyebrow. Her lip was swollen, her eyes wide with terror.

“Mom… he hit me.”

In twenty-five years as a surgeon, I’d seen nearly everything — stab wounds, car wrecks, domestic fights gone too far. Continues…