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.

he saw who was sitting at the table.

My name is Margaret Collins, and I am sixty-two years old. Last night, my son Daniel hit me. He had raised his voice at me many times before, but this was the first time his hand came down hard enough to leave a metallic taste in my mouth. I made no calls. I did not cry out. I steadied myself against the kitchen continue reading …