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For months, my husband made me hide every bruise beneath long sleeves. Then, in court, his lawyer called me a liar and demanded proof. I rose, slipped off my jacket, and identified the age, direction, and weapon behind every mark. “Objection?” I asked calmly. As a former forensic doctor, I dismantled his story—one injury at a time.

For months, my husband made me hide every bruise beneath long sleeves. Then, in court, his lawyer called me a liar and demanded proof. I rose, slipped off my jacket,…