Chapter 2: The Law Won’t Save You

2

Pain surged through my chest.

I held her, feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

Every muscle in my body ached to do something—anything—to erase what had happened. My vision blurred with rage and helplessness.

As a man, how could I accept seeing the woman I love humiliated and beaten?

Just imagining what she’d gone through made it hard to breathe.

I could see the police lights flickering outside the bridal shop windows, blue and red painting the walls. The manager stood by, wringing her hands and talking to the dispatcher. Shoppers whispered in tight little knots, their faces pale.

The store had already called the police, who arrived quickly. The woman wailed to the officers, saying she wanted to take the child to the hospital for an exam, and if he was hurt, she’d never let us off the hook.

A police officer came to ask us about the incident, but my wife was still shaking in my arms, unable to say a word.

Seeing her like this made me even more anxious. I told the police, "She looks like she’s about to pass out. Let’s get her checked out, okay?"

The officer—a middle-aged Black woman with a gentle voice—nodded and called for backup, her partner jotting down notes. But the woman who’d attacked my wife just sneered, arms crossed, acting like she was the real victim.

The woman immediately sneered, "What’s she pretending for? Acting so fragile is pathetic. When I used to breastfeed my kid and people saw me, I didn’t care. What kind of woman is so dramatic?"

I wanted to scream at her, but at that moment, all I could think about was my wife’s wellbeing.

Ignoring the police, I carried her out, got into the squad car, and asked them to take us to the hospital first.

The ride was a blur of sirens and city lights, my wife curled up against me on the sticky vinyl seat. I could barely breathe from the adrenaline, the urge to make everything right.

At the hospital, the police said this was likely a case of mutual assault.

The details would have to wait for the injury report.

I asked my wife to see the doctor, but she was shaking so badly she couldn’t walk. In the end, I carried her into the examination room.

I could feel people staring as I walked past—nurses at their stations, families in the waiting room. Some looked away quickly; others watched with open curiosity.

During the exam, the doctor’s expression grew grave and he told me to step outside.

I waited anxiously. The little boy soon came out as well, completely unharmed. He ran to his mother, clutching his face and crying that he was in pain.

The woman hugged the child, glared at me, and kept coaxing him, "Don’t be afraid, honey. If anyone bullies you again, we’ll fight back."

I clenched my hands, biting my nails, desperately praying that nothing was seriously wrong.

I paced the hall, glancing at the clock every few seconds, jumping at every sound. The antiseptic hospital smell felt suffocating.

After a while, the doctor came out, but my wife didn’t.

He said, "The situation is complicated. The patient has heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and is mentally unstable. I’ll arrange for an ambulance to transfer her to the main hospital. She may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder."

I was stunned, and even the woman was speechless.

The doctor’s words hit me like a punch. PTSD. I’d read about it in articles, seen it in movies, but I never thought it would be written into our lives.

She said anxiously, "Am I the only one who thinks she’s exaggerating? What’s the big deal about being seen? She was even wearing pasties. If she’s really so uptight that this gives her a mental breakdown, then she shouldn’t come out and mess with other people…"

The police officer shot her a look, and I saw another nurse shaking her head in disbelief at the woman's insensitivity. The ER was buzzing with tension, people murmuring in the background.

3

She didn’t finish her sentence.

Because I rushed at her, grabbed her hair, and dragged her into the bathroom.

For a split second, I saw my own reflection in the metal paper towel dispenser—jaw clenched, eyes wild. I didn’t care.

The cops nearby saw trouble and hurried to intervene, but I slammed the door shut.

The child, still in his mother’s arms, was dragged in as well.

There was frantic knocking outside. The woman stammered, "What are you doing? Are you going to hit someone in front of the police? You…"

I punched her in the stomach, making her collapse to her knees.

She clutched her belly, screaming, "He hit me! Police, help!"

My knuckles ached from the force, but all I felt was the white-hot fury that had been simmering inside me since the bridal shop.

I yanked her by the hair and dragged her to a toilet stall. The little boy fell to the ground, crying and pounding his fists at me, "Let go of my mom!"

His shrill voice echoed off the tiles. For a split second, I remembered being a kid and how powerless that felt. But I pushed the thought aside.

I said coldly, "Then don’t close your eyes. Watch your mom carefully."

I shoved the woman’s head into the toilet, her whole face pressed into the bowl. She started gagging and vomiting, and I pressed her head down and flushed the toilet.

The rush of water was loud, almost drowning out her muffled screams. The stench hit me, but I didn’t care. All I could see was my wife’s tear-streaked face, replaying over and over.

I roared, "Since your mouth is so filthy, let me help you clean it!"

She tried to struggle, but I pushed her back down.

She tried to vomit, but was forced to swallow it back.

The child cried in terror beside me, "Bad man! You’re a bad man!"

His words barely reached me, but I turned anyway. "Yeah, I am a bad man. Listen up, kid. Remember this face."

The woman convulsed. At that moment, the police broke down the door. I raised my hands and said coldly, "I won’t resist. Please send my wife to the main hospital. And if this woman is traumatized, that’s because she’s too psychologically fragile. Please, don’t let her come out and hurt others again, okay?"

The officers cuffed me, their faces unreadable. One of them hissed, "You just bought yourself an assault charge, buddy."

I was taken to the police station. There, I told the officers that my wife’s case and mine were separate. I had beaten this woman and was willing to accept punishment. But since she hurt my wife, she had to pay a price.

But life isn’t a TV drama. Justice doesn’t always prevail.

That woman was detained for just one day. Because she had two kids at home and was breastfeeding, she was quickly released.

The world doesn’t stop for what’s fair. She left the station with her kids, a smug smile on her face, and I was left with a knot of rage that refused to untangle.

We wanted to pursue criminal charges, but the police said my wife wasn’t physically injured, so it couldn’t be handled as a criminal case.

As for post-traumatic stress disorder, it didn’t meet the legal threshold for minor injury.

The officer’s voice was apologetic but firm, as if he'd said these words a hundred times before. "I’m sorry, sir. The law’s the law."

I refused to accept this and took my wife to consult a lawyer. The lawyer told us that in this kind of case, you can only accept your bad luck. At most, you could sue for civil compensation and advised us to let it go.

His office smelled like old coffee and disappointment. There was a stack of legal pads on his desk, and a diploma from Michigan State on the wall, faded and crooked. He barely looked up from his paperwork as he told us, "This stuff happens more than you think. The system isn’t built for people like you."

I got anxious and asked if we could sue for defamation, something I’d read about online.

The lawyer shook his head and explained that the law protects mothers. It’s impossible to put her in jail for this. Even if you somehow managed to sue, the result would likely be a suspended sentence or probation.

He showed me a couple of dusty legal books, flipping to statutes that might as well have been written in another language. My wife sat beside me, silent, twisting the ring on her finger.

When we left the law firm, my wife pressed her lips together, but tears streamed down her face.

Outside, the sun was too bright. She covered her eyes, but the tears kept coming. I hugged her, heartbroken, as she sobbed in my arms.

People passed us on the sidewalk, some glancing over with vague curiosity, but no one stopped. The city just kept moving, as if our pain was invisible.

She asked me, "Why do bad people never get punished?"

I had no answer.

For some people, paying a little money is punishment enough. But for us, the cost of cruelty was far too low.

Her voice was hoarse, each word heavy. I wanted to tell her the world would change, but I couldn’t lie to her.