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.

counter as he stormed away, slamming the door like a teenager rather than a thirty-four-year-old man.

That morning, I rose before sunrise, as I always do. My cheek was swollen, but I concealed it carefully with makeup and clasped on my pearl earrings. I spread the lace tablecloth my mother had given me on my wedding day and prepared a full Southern continue reading …