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…

you spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. You’re nothing without us.”

For six years, a threat like that would have sent me into a spiral of paralyzing panic. I would have lowered my eyes, apologized, and shrunk away.

Not today.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t break eye contact. I looked at the pathetic, shackled man standing before me, and continue reading …