Chapter 2 — The Hand That Carves Sin

"Am I the one forcing you?" I countered, my voice sharp with disbelief. "Who is really forcing whom here? Who was the one who crushed his own wife's hand in front of their five-year-old daughter? Tran Da, do you even deserve to be called a father?"

"You!" He raised his hand, his face contorting with sudden, jagged rage.

"Don't you dare!" Old Truong stepped forward, shielding me with his frame, standing tall and immovable like a fortress wall. "Tran Da, this is a hospital! What exactly do you think you are doing?"

Tran Da’s hand froze mid-air. His reason seemed to flicker back, a fragile thing held in check by the environment. He glanced toward the door of the patient room, where nurses and curious passersby had begun to congregate in the corridor, peering in. He slowly lowered his arm, his expression shifting instantaneously into that familiar, performative mask of agony.

"Hoan, just focus on your recovery and stop letting your mind wander," he said, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive cadence. "We will talk about everything once you are healthy." He locked eyes with me, his gaze deep and intense—a look devoid of love, carrying only the weight of a silent, chilling warning.

He turned and strode out. Once he left, the room fell into a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. Old Truong poured me a glass of water, his lips moving as if he wanted to speak, then closing again in hesitation.

"Old Truong, I need a favor," I said.

"Name it," he replied.

"Find me an excellent divorce attorney. I do not want a single cent of our assets; I only want custody of An An. Also, help me file for a personal safety protection order."

Old Truong nodded firmly. "Rest assured, consider it done." He paused, struggling with his thoughts, before finally blurting out, "To Hoan, are you... are you truly certain? After all these years..."

Yes, all these years. Eight of them. Tran Da and I had met through a matchmaker. He was tall, handsome, a rising star in the military with a bright, unfolding future. Everyone said I had snagged an ideal husband. In the beginning, he was truly wonderful—attentive, gentle, never missing an anniversary.

The first time he laid a hand on me was when I was three months pregnant. It was over a trivial matter, a sudden slap that left me completely stunned. He had immediately clutched me, weeping, claiming he hadn't meant it—blaming the crushing stress of the military for his momentary lapse in control. He knelt on the floor, striking his own face, begging for my forgiveness. My heart softened. I believed him.

Then came the second time, the third... Every instance followed the same choreographed script: an explosion of rage, a violent act, and then a harrowing, tearful repentance. His violence grew more frequent and more severe over time—from slaps to punches, and eventually to the lash of a leather belt. I once suggested divorce. That time, he held a knife to his own throat, screaming that if I dared to leave, he would die right in front of me. He claimed he loved me to the bone, that his violence was merely a symptom of caring too deeply.

Then An An was born. For the sake of our child, I endured time and again. I always told myself that perhaps he would change. Perhaps, for his daughter’s sake, he would learn restraint. I poured every ounce of my energy into my work, striving for excellence in surgery, research, and accolades. I thought that if I were merely successful enough, if I were brilliant enough, he would finally respect me and never dare treat me this way again.

Looking back now, it feels grotesque. My success and achievements did not win his respect; instead, they became the catalyst for his abuse. He felt I was becoming harder to control; he saw my shine in the outside world as a provocation to his fragile masculine ego. Thus, he sought to destroy me. He sought to dismantle the very things I held most dear.

"I am sure," I cut through the memories, staring at Old Truong. "I have never been more certain than I am right now."

There is nothing more agonizing than a heart that has finally gone cold. The moment his heel crushed the bones of my hand, the illusion of "love" within me shattered into dust. The days that followed were a grueling, agonizing cycle of treatment and recovery. Changing bandages, debriding wounds, physical therapy. Every dressing change felt like torture. The gauze would peel away to reveal the jagged, centipede-like sutures and skin turned pallid from a lack of blood flow.

My hand—the same hand that once navigated microscopic vessels and nerves under a surgical lens—now could not even flex a single knuckle. The physical therapist told me to try gripping a small foam ball. I summoned every ounce of willpower, but my hand remained as lifeless as a piece of wood, refusing to budge. Sweat beaded on my forehead, rolling down to the floor. An An sat beside me, watching. She did not cry, nor did she make a fuss; she simply remained by my side. Whenever I failed and let my hand fall, she would run over and touch the plaster cast with her small, gentle hands.

"Mom, it doesn't hurt," she whispered.

I knew she was mimicking me, repeating the words I had told her that night. My heart felt as though it were being pierced by needles.

Old Truong handled the legal side with impressive speed. The attorney he found was a sharp, capable woman named Vuong. After listening to my story and reviewing the medical reports documenting my injuries, her expression turned stern.

"Doctor To, this is no longer a simple domestic dispute. This is intentional infliction of grievous bodily harm," Lawyer Vuong said. "According to the assessment, the severity of your injuries constitutes a major felony. We can file for divorce immediately while reserving the right to pursue criminal charges against him."

"I do not want him to go to prison," I said.

Lawyer Vuong looked at me, stunned.