The knock on the door was so hard I shot up in bed, my heart climbing into my throat. It was five in the morning, with a thick, pre-dawn darkness still clinging to the window. This wasn’t a polite ring of the doorbell. It was fists, desperate and frantic, like someone’s life depended on it.
“Mom, open up! Mom, please!”
It was Emily’s voice. My daughter’s, trembling and breaking into sobs.
I ran barefoot to the door, throwing on my robe as I went. When I opened it, the sight stopped my insides cold. Emily stood in the doorway, her hands pressed protectively against her huge, nine-month belly. A thin trail of blood ran down from a split eyebrow. Her lip was swollen to twice its normal size, and the horror in her eyes was the kind I hadn’t seen since I worked in trauma and treated car crash victims.
“Emily, my darling, what happened?” I dragged her inside and sat her down on the entryway sofa.
“It was Max… he hit me, Mom. He hit me,” she managed through a torrent of tears, and something dark, ancient, and fiercely maternal rose up in me. The urge to protect, and the even stronger urge to punish.
I’m Charlene Reiner, fifty-two years old, and for the last twenty-five years, I’ve been a surgeon at the city hospital. In that time, I’ve seen everything—stab wounds, gunshot wounds, the brutal aftermath of drunken brawls and domestic disputes. But it’s one thing to have a stranger on the operating table, and another entirely to have your only daughter sitting in front of you with a battered face.
“Sit here. Don’t go anywhere.”
I ran for the first-aid kit, grabbing peroxide, iodine, and bandages. My hands didn’t tremble—a habit of the trade—but inside, I was boiling. “Tell me what happened,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm as I treated the eyebrow wound.
“We argued… about money, as always. I said we needed to buy a crib for the baby, and he said I’m a spendthrift, that I blow his money left and right. I told him I work too, that this is our money.” Her voice broke. “And he… he just snapped. First, he hit my face, then he shoved me, and I fell.” Emily sobbed harder, wrapping her arms around her belly.
“Does it hurt? Is your belly hurting?” I switched instantly into doctor mode.
“No, I don’t think so. I was just so scared. I thought he wouldn’t stop.”
Max Daniels. That’s my son-in-law’s name. Thirty-five. A manager at a big construction firm. Always in a tie, always with a perfect, polished smile. When Emily brought him home to meet us three years ago, I felt something was off right away. He was too proper, too polite, too… slippery, maybe.
“Charlene, you look so young! I thought you were Emily’s peer,” he’d flattered at our first meeting. But I saw the way he quietly surveyed my apartment, calculating the value of the furniture and the pictures on the walls. Emily was in love, though. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed at the mere mention of his name. “Mom, he’s so caring, so attentive,” she’d gushed. I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to ruin her happiness.
And now, here she was, in front of me with a smashed face, nine months pregnant.
“You’re not going back to him,” I said firmly as I put a bandage on her eyebrow.
“Mom, but the flat… our things… and maybe he’ll come to his senses. Apologize.”
“Emily Reiner.” I rarely used her full name, only when I was utterly serious. “A man who raises his hand to his pregnant wife won’t come to his senses, and he won’t change. That’s a medical and statistical fact. You’re staying here.”
She nodded, but I could see the doubt in her eyes. It’s a familiar pattern. Victims of domestic abuse often excuse their abusers, find reasons for their behavior, and even blame themselves. “Maybe I really do spend too much,” she began.
I cut her off. “Even if you burned all your money in a casino, that still gives him no right to hit you. Period.”
I put Emily to bed in my room and gave her a mild sedative. Then I sat in the kitchen with a strong cup of coffee. It was 5:20 AM, two hours until my shift, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Dark, cold thoughts spun through my head. What to do? File a police report? Emily wouldn’t do that. I know her. A divorce? Max would resist, drag it out. And the baby was due any day. Talk to him? Useless. People like that only understand one thing: force.
Then an idea hit me, cold and clear as a scalpel’s edge. I’m a surgeon. I have access to medications. I have knowledge. I have tools. No, I wasn’t going to harm him. I’m not a criminal. But I was going to teach him a lesson he’d remember for the rest of his miserable life. Why not?
The plan formed with the speed and precision of a surgical procedure. At the hospital, I had access to a pharmacy of drugs, including potent sleeping medications and muscle relaxants—drugs that could induce a state of paralysis without being life-threatening. The effect, however, would be terrifyingly impressive. I would also need surgical instruments. Not for surgery, of course, but for the theatrical impact.
I went to my home medical office, a small study where I kept medical books and a few emergency tools. I took out a small surgical kit: scalpels of various sizes, clamps, needle holders, all sterile and individually packaged. I thought for a moment and added a few ampules of saline and some syringes. The scene had to be convincing.
At 7:00 AM, I called my work and said I had urgent family matters and would be taking the day off. My boss, Neil, a good man, didn’t pry. He just said, “Charlene, if you need anything, let me know.”
I thanked him and hung up. Emily was still asleep, her breathing even, her face finally calm. Let her rest. I had work to do.
Max and Emily’s apartment was half an hour away, in a new, gated building with a concierge at the entrance. I had keys; Emily had given me a spare just in case. The concierge, Mrs. Baker, a plump woman of about sixty with a kind face, recognized me.
“Oh, Charlene, visiting the young ones? I haven’t seen Emily this morning.”
“She wasn’t feeling well last night, so I brought her to my place,” I answered, trying to sound calm.
“Oh, but she’s about to pop! Has she gone into labor?” Mrs. Baker fretted.
“No, no, false alarm. I’m just here to get a few things for her.”
Mrs. Baker nodded and went back to her TV where a morning talk show was playing. I went up to the seventh floor and quietly opened the door. The apartment was silent, except for the sound of snoring from the bedroom. Max was asleep. Perfect.
I walked into the kitchen. A half-empty bottle of whiskey was on the table. Apparently, after Emily left, he tried to drown his guilt in alcohol, if he had any guilt at all. In a cupboard, I found his favorite mug, the one that said, “Best Boss,” a gift from his colleagues. I took the midazolam from my bag, a drug used for procedural sedation. I drew a small dose into a syringe—not dangerous, but enough to produce a deep, dreamless sleep for two to three hours. I emptied the syringe into the mug and poured fresh coffee from the machine. The smell of coffee would wake him up; Emily had told me he couldn’t start his day without a strong espresso.
Indeed, after about ten minutes, I heard footsteps from the bedroom. Max came into the kitchen in his underwear and a vest, his hair tousled, his face creased from sleep. He froze when he saw me. “Charlene? What are you doing here?”
“Good morning, Max. I came to talk about my daughter. Coffee?” I pointed to the mug.
He frowned but took it and took a big sip. “Where’s Emily?”
“With me. And she’s staying there.”
“Why is that? She’s my wife.”
“The wife you beat.”
He flinched, about to say something, but I raised a hand. “Don’t bother denying it. I saw the marks. I’m a doctor, Max. I can tell a bruise from an accidental injury.”
He took another sip of coffee and sat at the table. “It’s her fault. Nagging with her demands. ‘A crib for five hundred dollars,’ she says.”
“And that’s a reason to hit a pregnant woman?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t hit her. I just… pushed her a little.”
The midazolam was starting to take effect. I could see Max rubbing his eyes, yawning. “I feel like sleeping. Maybe I overdid it last night,” he mumbled.
“Why don’t you lie down? I’ll wait,” I suggested in a honeyed voice.
He looked at me suspiciously, but his eyelids were already heavy. “Maybe we’ll talk later.” He stood, swayed, and went back to the bedroom. I waited fifteen minutes, then went to check. He was out cold.
Now the interesting part began.
I returned to the kitchen, cleared the dining table, and wiped it with alcohol. Sterility first, even for a theatrical setup. I laid out my instruments: scalpels, clamps, scissors, needle holders. Everything glittered with a cold, metallic sheen in the morning light. I took the ampules and syringes and arranged them in neat rows. Then I brought clean towels from the bathroom and spread them around the table. The scene looked impressive, like someone preparing for a serious operation.
But that was only the beginning. I took a sheet of paper and a pen from my bag. I wrote in big, clear letters:
Max Daniels,
You will wake up in one hour. You will have a choice.
Option One: You file for divorce voluntarily, claim no rights to the child, pay child support, and disappear from Emily’s life forever.
Option Two: I use my professional skills to ensure you can never raise a hand against a woman again. The choice is yours.
P.S. Don’t think this is a joke. I’m a surgeon with 25 years of experience. I can do things to you so you won’t even know what happened until it’s too late.
P.P.S. Touch my daughter again, and next time, I won’t be so kind.
I placed the note in full view beside the instruments. But that wasn’t all. I went back to the bedroom where Max slept. I carefully pulled his vest off; he didn’t stir. On his chest and abdomen, I drew lines with iodine, the kind usually marked before an operation to outline incisions. It looked chillingly realistic. Then I put on surgical gloves, a mask, and a cap—the whole kit from my bag. I sat in a chair by the bed and waited.
Max began to wake up roughly two hours later. At first, he groaned, then opened his eyes and tried to focus. “What’s… happening?” he mumbled.
“You’re waking up. Good,” I said without removing my mask.
He turned his head, saw me in full surgical garb, and jerked. “What the hell?” He tried to get up, but I put a gloved hand on his chest.
“Lie still. You need to see something.”
He looked down, saw the iodine lines crisscrossing his body, and went pale. “What… what did you do to me?”
“Nothing. Yet. Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll explain everything there.”
Staggering, Max got out of bed, his legs unsteady from the residual effects of the drug. We went to the kitchen, and when he saw the instruments spread on the table, he grabbed the door frame for support. “You’re a psycho,” he breathed.
“No. I’m a mother. Read the note.”
He took the paper with trembling hands and read it, then read it again. “This is blackmail. I’ll go to the police.”
“Try. Tell them your mother-in-law is blackmailing you because you beat her pregnant daughter. Let’s see which side the law takes.”
He was silent, thinking. I continued, “Max, I’m not some horror movie villain. I just want to protect my daughter. You can walk away from her life quietly, and we’ll forget this incident. Or you can be stubborn, and then… let’s just say I have many friends in the medical community. They all have daughters, sisters, wives. We don’t like men who mistreat women.”
Max sat down heavily in a chair and buried his head in his hands. “This is insane. You can’t just—”
“I can, and you know it. The question is whether you choose the easy way or the hard one.” I took off my mask and sat opposite him. “You know, Max, I warned you. Remember at your wedding? I told you, ‘Take care of my girl.’ And what did you do? You thought I was just saying words.”
He looked up at me, fear mixed with anger in his eyes. “Emily won’t want a divorce. She loves me.”
“After what you did? Don’t flatter yourself. She’s just afraid of being alone with a baby. But she has me. She has a job. She has friends. And you will soon have nothing if you keep being stubborn.”
Max stood up and paced around the kitchen, his eyes darting from the instruments to me, then back to the instruments. “Fine,” he finally said. “I’ll file for divorce. But the apartment stays with me.”
“The apartment you bought together? I don’t think so. Emily will get her share.”
“That’s robbery!”
“It’s justice. You don’t want your child growing up in a rented place, do you?”
He clenched his jaw but nodded. “Good boy. Now go take a shower, wash off the iodine, and remember, I’ll be watching. One wrong move, one harsh word toward Emily, and our next meeting won’t be so friendly.”
I gathered the instruments and put them back in my case. Max stood by the door, watching me. “Could you… could you really do something?” he asked quietly.
I looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you want to find out?”
He shook his head quickly. “Good. Goodbye, Max. I hope we never meet again.”
I left the apartment, leaving him standing stunned in the middle of his kitchen. Outside, I took a deep breath of cool air. My hands trembled slightly. The adrenaline was still there, but I felt satisfied. No, I wasn’t proud of what I’d done. But sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire. I got into the car and drove home, back to my daughter.
Emily woke up around noon. I made her favorite chicken noodle soup and brewed some herbal tea. She came out of the bedroom wrapped in my robe, her face puffy but without that look of terror she’d had last night.
“Mom, where were you?” she asked, sitting down at the table.
“Had a few things to take care of. How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Just hurts a bit here,” she said, pointing to her ribs. I examined her—a big bruise, but the ribs were fine. I could tell by touch. “How’s the baby? Moving?”
“Yeah. Kicking like crazy.”
“That’s good.” We sat down to eat. Emily ate in silence for a while, lost in thought. Then she suddenly asked, “Mom, what am I supposed to do now? I can’t live with you forever.”
“Why not? There’s plenty of room. You’ll give birth, I’ll help with the baby, then we’ll see.”
“And Max… he won’t just leave me alone.”
“He will,” I said confidently.
“How do you know?”
“Mother’s instinct.” She smiled for the first time that morning.
At three in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. Emily flinched and grabbed my hand. “It’s him.”
“Stay here. I’ll open it.”
But it wasn’t Max. It was a delivery man holding a huge bouquet of roses. “Emily Reiner?” he asked.
I took the bouquet. There was a card among the roses. Emily opened it and read aloud, “‘Forgive me. I was wrong. I’m filing for divorce. The apartment and the car are yours. I’ll pay child support. I won’t bother you again. Max.’”
She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “Mom, is this real?”
“Looks like it.”
“But how? Why would he suddenly—”
“Maybe his conscience woke up,” I said with a shrug.
Emily burst into tears, but this time, they were tears of relief. “Mom, I was so scared he’d stalk me, threaten me.”
“He won’t. I promise.” She hugged me, burying her face in my shoulder. “Mom, what would I do without you?”
“You’d manage somehow. You’re strong. You’re the strong one.”
That evening, my friend Zoe called. She’s a doctor too, a gynecologist. “Charlene, I heard Emily’s with you. What happened? Mrs. Baker, the concierge, is my patient. She said she saw you this morning and you told her Emily wasn’t feeling well.”
“She wasn’t, but she’s better now. She and Max are getting divorced.”
“Really? Finally! I always said that guy was bad news. Zoe, can you check on Emily? She fell.”
“Of course. Bring her to my clinic tomorrow.”
The next day, Zoe examined Emily and did an ultrasound. “Everything’s fine. The baby’s healthy, strong heartbeat. But these bruises…” she shook her head, looking at the marks on Emily’s arms and ribs.
“Fell badly,” my daughter muttered.
Zoe glanced at me. I gave a small shake of my head. Don’t ask.
“All right, then,” Zoe said. “She fell. But no more falling, okay? You’ll probably give birth in about two weeks.” After the exam, Zoe pulled me aside. “Charlene, he did this, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“I hope you gave him hell.”
“In a way,” I smirked.
“I know your temper. I bet you scared him so bad he won’t go near another woman again.”
“Let’s hope so.”
The days passed quietly. Emily stayed with me. We turned my home office into a nursery. Max kept his word; he never showed up again. Only his lawyer came by once with the divorce papers, which Emily signed without even reading. And then, one night, at 3:00 AM, it began.
“Mom, I think it’s starting.”
I jumped up. Emily stood in the doorway, holding her belly. “My water broke, and I’m getting contractions.”
The delivery went smoothly. After six hours, Will was born—3.8 kilograms of pure happiness. When they brought him out for me to see, I cried for the first time in years. So tiny, wrinkled, red, but already with character, screaming his lungs out.
“Grandma, meet your grandson,” said the nurse, handing me the bundle. I took him in my arms, and my heart melted completely. “Hello, Will,” I whispered. “I’m your grandma, Charlene. We’re going to be good friends, you and I.” He looked at me with cloudy baby eyes and suddenly stopped crying.
Life settled into a new rhythm. Emily blossomed into a wonderful mother. I discovered the joys of being a grandmother. It was a peaceful, happy time, until the day an unexpected visitor arrived. I opened the door to find a young woman, pretty and well-groomed, but with a frightened, lost look in her eyes.
“Are you Charlene Reiner?”
“And you are?”
“I’m Gloria. Max’s wife.”
I froze. Wife? “Come in.”
Gloria sat on the edge of a chair in the kitchen, nervously twisting the strap of her purse. “I know it’s strange for me to come here, but I had nowhere else to go. We got married two weeks ago. He was so persistent, so charming.” A chill ran through me. That bastard. “What happened?”
“He hit me. Last night, we argued, and he… he hit me in the face.” She lifted her head, and I saw the faint bruise on her cheek, half-covered with makeup. “After he hit me, he got drunk and started saying strange things about you. That you’re crazy, that you threatened him. And then he said something that scared me: ‘She thinks she scared me, but I’ll show her yet.’ Charlene, I’m scared. He’s like a different person. Obsessed.”
“Gloria, listen to me carefully,” I said. “Max is dangerous. He hit my daughter when she was nine months pregnant. Now he’s doing the same to you.”
“But where can I go?” she cried.
“Leave,” I said firmly. “Right now, while he’s at work. Pack your things and get out.”
I went with her back to that apartment I knew too well. While she quickly packed, I had an idea. “Gloria, do you have access to Max’s computer?”
“Yes, it’s not password-protected.”
I opened his laptop and started digging through his folders. And then I found it: a folder called “Photos,” and inside, a subfolder named “Private.” I opened it and gasped. It was full of pictures of women, dozens of them. Some clearly had no idea they were being photographed. In others, the women had visible bruises.
“Oh my god,” whispered Gloria, looking over my shoulder.
I quickly copied the entire folder onto a flash drive. “This is our trump card,” I said.
We were about to leave when the door suddenly swung open, and there was Max, standing in the doorway. His face turned crimson when he saw us. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m leaving you,” Gloria said calmly.
“The hell you are!” He took a step toward her, but I moved between them.
“I wouldn’t do that, Max.”
He glared at me with pure hatred. “Oh, Charlene. So, this is your doing.”
“No. You did this yourself when you hit her.”
“None of your business!”
“When a man mistreats women, it becomes everyone’s business.” Max tried to step around me, but I pulled out my phone. “One more move and I’m calling the police. And I’ll show them what I found on your computer.”
He froze. “What did you find?”
“Your little collection. I’m sure the police will be very interested.”
His face went white. At that moment, Mrs. Baker appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on here? Max, why are you shouting?”
“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Baker,” I said quickly. “We’re just leaving.”
“And why does the girl have a split lip?” Mrs. Baker looked closely at Gloria. “Right onto his fist, huh?” Then she turned to Max. “Max, let me tell you something. I hear yelling from this apartment again, I’m calling the cops. I’m seventy. I’ve seen a lot, and I can’t stand men who hit women.” She shook her head and left.
Gloria and I walked out, leaving Max standing in the hallway, his face twisted with rage. I drove her to the train station and bought her a ticket to Portland, where her mother lived. “Here’s my number,” I said. “If anything happens, call me.”
That bastard had learned nothing. My lesson hadn’t been enough. It was time for a different approach.
