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…

It was scuffed now, bearing the microscopic scars of the night it saved my life.

I didn’t hide it away in a drawer. I didn’t throw it in the trash as a bad memory.

I reached up and hung the heavy fob on a small brass hook right next to my new front door. I hung it there as a monument. A reminder of the exact moment I stopped being a victim and became continue reading …