My husband shoved me, shattering the bathroom mirror. His mother sneered, “Clean up this disgusting mess.” But as I fell, my husband roared, “What’s in your pocket?!” The red LED of my federal distress fob pulsed. Denied the third click, I threw myself onto the broken glass, and…

agonizing scream that echoed off the tiles, pulling the shard upward as if I were having a complete, uncontrollable psychological breakdown.

“I’m sorry! I’m so clumsy!” I shrieked, letting the blood well up and spill over my fingers, smearing it across the white tiles in a horrific display. I rocked back and forth, holding my bleeding hand, sobbing continue reading …