I did not answer her question because I reached for her wrist and felt her flinch, which told me more than words ever could.
“What happened to your face,” I asked calmly, watching her carefully.
“I fell off my bike,” she replied with a weak smile that did not convince me at all.
I examined her hands and saw swollen fingers and red knuckles, which were not injuries from a fall but signs of someone trying to defend themselves.
“Jenna, tell me the truth,” I said, refusing to let her hide behind excuses.
“I am fine,” she insisted, but her voice cracked under the weight of the lie.
I lifted her sleeve before she could stop me, and the sight of her arms covered in bruises woke something inside me that had been quiet for years.
Some marks were old and fading, while others were fresh and deep, forming patterns that spoke of repeated cruelty and pain.
“Who did this to you,” I asked quietly, feeling my chest tighten.
She hesitated before breaking down completely, as if the truth had been suffocating her for too long.
“Travis,” she whispered, tears running down her face. “He has been hitting me for years, and his mother and sister help him, and they treat me like I do not matter at all.”
I stood completely still, trying to process what she had just said while holding back the storm building inside me.
“He hit Mia too,” she added, her voice shaking as she spoke about her three year old daughter.
I felt something inside me go completely cold, because that was the moment everything became clear.
“He came home drunk and angry after losing money, and when Mia cried, he slapped her,” Jenna continued, unable to stop crying now.
I slowly stood up and looked at her with a calmness that surprised even me.
“You did not come here to visit me,” I said quietly.
She looked confused and wiped her tears. “What do you mean?”
“You came here because you need help, and you are going to stay here while I leave,” I replied without hesitation.
Her face turned pale as she shook her head in disbelief. “You cannot do that, they will notice, and you do not know how things work outside anymore.”
“I know enough,” I said firmly. “You still believe they might change, but I know they will not, and I know how to deal with people like them.”
I held her shoulders and forced her to meet my eyes.
“You are kind and you keep hoping for better, but I do not hope, I act,” I told her with quiet certainty.