At 5 a.m., I got a call from my son-in-law: “Come pick up your daughter at the bus stop. We don’t want her anymore.” When I arrived, my daughter was barely breathing, covered in bruises and broken bones. She sobbed, “My husband and his mother…1

Three hours later, Dr. Evans emerged. He looked exhausted. He was a good man, a doctor Margaret had known for years, and the look in his eyes told her everything she didn’t want to know.

“Margaret,” he said softly.

“Tell me,” she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the panic from earlier.

“She’s in a coma,” Dr. Evans said, leading her to a chair. “The trauma to the skull is severe. There is significant swelling in the brain. We’ve had to drill to relieve pressure, but…” He hesitated. “There’s internal bleeding. Her spleen is ruptured. Four ribs are broken. Her tibia is shattered.”

“Will she wake up?” Margaret asked.

Dr. Evans looked at the floor, then back at Margaret. “I need to be honest with you. The Glasgow Coma Scale score is three. That is the lowest possible score. The brain damage… it’s catastrophic. Even if her body heals, the Emily you knew…” He took a deep breath. “You should prepare for the worst. You should say your goodbyes.”