My husband hammered a nail into our 7-year-old daughter’s foot to force her to study instead of running, ignoring her bloody screams. When my father burst in to save her, my husband brutally smashed the heavy hammer into his head, leaving him bleeding on the floor.

The criminal case continued separately.

I learned that justice was rarely as simple as one dramatic moment when everyone finally understood the truth.

There were forms to complete, statements to give, appointments to attend, and nights when I woke up wondering whether I had done enough.

But there was one thing I never questioned.

My daughter would not be forced to live with the person who had hurt her simply because he was her father.

And I would never again confuse keeping a family together with keeping a child in danger.

Several months later, my father came to visit us.

He was walking slowly, using a cane on days when his balance was poor. The doctors had told him that his recovery would continue for some time.

My daughter ran toward him as quickly as her healing foot allowed.

Then she stopped.

“Can I hug you, Grandpa?”

Dad’s face crumpled.