I slid the letter across the table, feeling the sharp edge of the envelope catch my finger. “I wrote this last night, after you called to say you were on your way home,” I said. His eyes dropped to the envelope, then back up to mine, searching.“They need to know what they’ve done,” I said, my voice steady, though inside, emotions churned like a stormy sea. “Not just to Abby, but to us all. I won’t let them treat her like she’s invisible. Like she’s nothing.”

The letter was brief, each word carefully chosen. I didn’t waste space on anger or accusations. Instead, I laid out the facts with the clinical precision I’d mastered over years in the ER. I explained how Abby had felt, how she’d been made to feel, and that I would no longer stand by and let them hurt her—or us—without consequence.Mark read the letter slowly, his eyes narrowing, softening, then hardening again. When he looked up, his nod was one of agreement, of unity. “We don’t need their approval,” he said, a spark of defiance in his voice. “We have our own family. We protect that.”After breakfast, as Abby still slept, I slipped out into the crisp morning air, inhaling deeply to steady myself. I made my way to my parents’ house, the letter clutched in my hand. The once-familiar path felt foreign as if I were walking through a memory rather than reality.