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…

calculated coldness that had suddenly replaced the panic in my eyes, his brow furrowed. He took a step closer, realizing something was terribly, terribly wrong.

They didn’t let me leave the bathroom immediately. When they finally deemed I had “calmed down” from my hysterical episode, Vance hauled me up by my uninjured arm, haphazardly wrapping a hand continue reading …