I nervously twist my wedding band and engagement ring. The metal is warm from my skin, but it’s the only thing that grounds me. I picture Nate placing them on my finger, his eyes full of love, his voice trembling with emotion. Come back to me, I whisper in my mind. Please.
My heels click softly as I step toward the stage, but my body feels heavy, almost unwilling. My feet feel like they’re wading through wet cement. The microphone waits for me like a spotlight I don’t want tonight. But I owe it to every woman in this room to show up. To speak.
The lights are bright. The room is full. I see donors, survivors, supporters, allies. I see hope. And I see the strength it takes to be vulnerable.
I take a deep breath, trying to shove the fear into a locked drawer in my heart.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” My voice is steady, but it feels foreign in my throat. “Thank you for your presence here tonight. Every woman deserves to feel safe—in her home, at work, on the street. Safety isn’t a privilege—it’s a right.”
A murmur of agreement rises from the audience, and I press on, fueled by their support.
“Every day, girls, mothers, sisters, and wives are abused by those who should’ve protected them. This isn’t just a statistic. These are real women. Real lives shattered.”
I pause, my chest tightening.
“We created this association to listen to women. To give them shelter. Legal protection. Psychological support. And most importantly, hope. Because those who beat us do not love us. Love doesn’t bruise. Love doesn’t silence. And above all—it is never our fault.”
I feel my voice quiver, just a little. I don’t fight it. I let it break through. Because this isn’t just about them—it’s about all of us.
“We’re here tonight to inaugurate a new wing—one that will offer temporary housing and legal counsel to women and children escaping violence. A safe place. A new beginning. Your donations tonight will help build that future.”
The applause starts slowly, then builds, washing over me like a tide. I manage a small smile, even as I feel the burn behind my eyes.
The ballroom’s doors slam open with a violent echo that rips through the air like a gunshot.
Gasps ripple across the room. Every eye turns toward the entrance. My breath catches in my throat as two men in uniform stride in, their expressions unreadable, grim. And behind them—Morris. My heart plummets. My knees wobble, a wave of heat and dread washing over me all at once.
No. No, no, no.
Cindy’s arm wraps tightly around my waist as if she can feel me slipping, grounding me before I hit the floor. I cling to her without realizing it, the wedding ring digging into her hand.
“Mrs. Weister,” one of the officers says gently, voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Sorry for the interruption. Could you follow us?”
The room starts spinning, voices blurring into a distant murmur. “Is Nathan okay?” I ask, my voice cracking, trying to sound calm, rational—but it comes out trembling and hoarse. I already know something’s wrong. I feel it in every part of me.
Cindy squeezes my hand like she can infuse strength into me, and I nod, legs moving before I’m even aware of it. Each step feels like walking through a nightmare I can't wake up from.
“What happened?” I ask once we’re out of the ballroom, the lights behind us, the speech forgotten. My hands are shaking. My stomach turns.
The older officer looks at me with quiet restraint. “Captain Weister has been transferred in Germany to Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre. We’re here to accompany you there, ma'am.”
Germany?
Transferred?
I don’t understand. Nothing makes sense. My pulse is pounding so loudly it drowns out the hallway noise. “Oh my God. Is Nathan okay?” I ask again, this time louder, more desperate. I turn to Morris. “Get my jacket and bag. Now.”
The younger officer finally meets my eyes. “He’s still alive, ma’am.”
Those four words are the only thing keeping me upright.
He's still alive.
He's still alive.
But how alive? What aren’t they telling me? Why do their faces look like they’re preparing me for something I won’t be able to handle?
They say nothing else.
