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.

“Mark is coming with a truck.”

Daniel stared at his untouched plate. “So this is it? Breakfast and betrayal?”

“This,” I said, holding his gaze, “is breakfast and boundaries.”

He walked out without another word. The sound of drawers slamming upstairs moved through the house, followed by a heavy stillness. It was then that I noticed my shoulders were not continue reading …