When I tried to protect my 5-year-old daughter from my father, my sister and mother forced me to leave while my father yelled, “Your little trash needs to learn some manners!”…

I leaned on his shoulder, murmuring bitter words, although my voice trembled with anger and fear.

Dr. Amanda Reeves, the tour doctor, took me aside. Her expression was serious, her eyes sharp and direct. “Your daughter has significant trauma,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Beyond what you can see, we are checking for internal injuries, a concussion from the impact to the head, potential kidney damage and any internal sacred wounds. We need to do a CT scan immediately.”

My knees began to buckle. I felt the room close around me, and Dr. Reeves grabbed my elbow.

“I need you to stand strong for her,” he said firmly. “She needs to see that you’re here, that you’re fighting for her. Can you do that?”

I swallowed, despite the trembling, despite the storm of fear, anger and pain that threatened to consume me.

I had to be strong. For Lily. For the little girl I had trusted and the people who had betrayed her. I had to be her shield.