My son hit me last night, and I said nothing. The next morning, I draped my lace tablecloth over the table, prepared a full Southern breakfast, and brought out the fine china as though it were a celebration.

My son struck me last night, and I held my tongue. That morning, I smoothed out my lace tablecloth, put together a full Southern breakfast, and laid out the good china as though it were Christmas morning. When he came downstairs, he glanced at the biscuits and grits, smirked, and said, “Looks like you finally learned.” But that smile faded the moment continue reading …