Chapter 5
Physical therapy started the next day, and it was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
The therapist, a woman named Rita with biceps like cinder blocks, made me try to wiggle my toes over and over again until I was sweating and crying from frustration.
“Nothing,” I sobbed, falling back against the pillows. “I can’t feel anything. It’s useless. I’m never gonna walk again.”
Rita sat down on the edge of the bed, her face gentle but firm.
“Hey,” she said. “None of that. Your spine was badly injured. It takes time. I’ve seen people with worse injuries than you walk again. But it doesn’t happen overnight. And it doesn’t happen if you give up before you even start.”
She held up a mirror, pointing it at my feet.
“Look,” she said. “I’m touching your big toe. Do you feel anything? Even a tingle? Even a little pressure?”
I stared at my feet, concentrating as hard as I could.
And then—
A tiny, almost imperceptible tingle at the tip of my big toe.
I gasped.
“I felt it,” I said, my voice shaking. “Rita, I felt it!”
Rita grinned, a big, bright grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
“Told you,” she said. “That’s the first step. Now we just gotta build on it. You ready to work?”
I nodded, wiping my tears.
“I’m ready.”
I worked for six hours a day, every day.
I did leg lifts until my muscles burned. I practiced sitting up until I could hold myself up for five minutes straight. I used a machine that sent tiny electrical pulses into my legs, trying to wake the nerves up.
It was agony.
Some days I cried so hard I could barely breathe, convinced I’d never get better.
But Rita never let me quit.
Lauren and Mason came to visit every single day.
Mason would sit on the edge of the therapy table, cheering me on like I was running a marathon.
“You can do it, Auntie Bridge!” he’d yell, clapping his little hands. “One more! You’re the strongest lady in the whole world!”
Lauren would bring me coffee and snacks, helping me practice my exercises when Rita wasn’t there, holding my hand when the pain got too bad.
Sarah came too, three or four times a week, bringing me terrible reality TV magazines and making me laugh until I forgot how much it hurt.
Eli handled all the legal stuff, updating me daily on the case against Tyler and Marcus.
The preliminary hearing was set for two weeks after my surgery.
Eli said it would be a formality—with the footage, the texts, Lauren’s testimony, and Mason’s statement, there was no way the judge would let Tyler out on bail.
My parents tried everything they could to stop it.
They hired a fancy lawyer from New York, paid him a fortune to try to get the evidence thrown out.
They told anyone who’d listen that I was a drug addict, that I was mentally unstable, that I’d made the whole thing up to steal Tyler’s birthright.
They even tried to get a doctor to testify that my spinal injury was self-inflicted, that I’d thrown myself off the deck for attention.
But none of it worked.
The backup security footage was too clear.
The text messages between Tyler and Marcus were too damning.
Lauren’s testimony was too raw, too honest, too full of pain to be fake.
On the day of the preliminary hearing, I got wheeled into the courtroom in a wheelchair, my back still throbbing, my legs still numb below the knees.
Tyler was there, in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him.
He looked terrible—his hair was a mess, he had dark circles under his eyes, he’d lost at least ten pounds.
When he saw me, he glared, his mouth twisting into a snarl.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he mouthed at me across the room.
I didn’t flinch.
I stared right back at him, my chin held high.
I wasn’t scared of him anymore.
My parents were there too, sitting behind Tyler, their faces tight with rage.
When they saw me, my mom let out a dramatic gasp, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue like I’d broken her heart.
The judge called the hearing to order.
The prosecution played the security footage first.
The whole courtroom went dead silent as they watched Tyler corner me on the deck, yell at me, shove me so hard the railing snapped.
I heard a woman in the jury pool gasp.
I saw Tyler’s lawyer slump in his chair.
Then they played the 911 call from the neighbor, followed by the text messages between Tyler and Marcus—Tyler telling Marcus to “wipe the tapes clean” and “make it look like an accident,” promising him another ten grand if he did.
Then Lauren testified.
She told the court about the years of abuse, about seeing Tyler push me, about being scared for her life and her son’s life.
She showed the judge the photos of her bruises, the police reports she’d filed but never followed through on out of fear.
Then the judge called Mason to testify, with a child psychologist sitting beside him to make sure he wasn’t scared.
Mason sat in the big witness chair, his little legs swinging, holding a stuffed rabbit Lauren had brought him.
“Did you see what happened to your Auntie Bridget at the party?” the prosecutor asked him gently.
Mason nodded vigorously.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Daddy pushed her. He was yelling real loud. He said she was a mean lady. Then he pushed her and she fell down. It was scary.”
The judge’s face softened.
“Thank you, young man,” he said. “You can go sit with your mom now.”
When all the evidence was presented, the judge turned to Tyler.
“Mr. Hale,” he said, his voice stern. “The evidence against you is overwhelming. You are charged with aggravated assault causing serious bodily injury, conspiracy to tamper with evidence, and multiple counts of domestic abuse. These are serious crimes. You are a danger to the community, and a particular danger to your sister and your wife and child. Bail is denied. You will remain in custody until your trial.”
Tyler let out a roar of rage, lunging forward in his chair until the bailiffs grabbed him, holding him down.
“This is a travesty!” he screamed. “She’s lying! She’s always lying! You’re all gonna pay for this!”
My mom stood up, screaming too, throwing her purse at the bailiffs.
“You can’t do this! He’s my son! He’s a good boy! That girl is evil!”
The bailiffs grabbed her too, escorting both her and my dad out of the courtroom, yelling and fighting the whole way.
I sat there in my wheelchair, my hands shaking, as the judge banged his gavel.
It was over.
For now, at least.
Tyler was going to stay in jail until his trial.
He couldn’t hurt me.
He couldn’t hurt Lauren or Mason.
Eli leaned over, squeezing my shoulder.
“Told you,” he said, smiling. “Rose always said justice is slow, but it always comes.”
I looked over at Lauren, who was crying, holding Mason tight to her chest.
I looked at Sarah, sitting in the back row, giving me a big thumbs up.
I looked at Rita, my physical therapist, who’d come to support me, grinning and wiping a tear from her eye.
May you like
Yeah, I thought.
It does come.
