Zero Tolerance, Real Boundaries: A Mother’s Stand After Her Son Fights Back

He grabbed my shirt and tried to drag me back. He said… he said I wasn’t going anywhere until he was done having fun.”

My blood went cold. Not the hot flare of anger, but the icy, paralyzed cold of memory.

Suddenly, I wasn’t thirty-five years old anymore. I was ten. I was in the foster home on 4th Street—the one with the peeling yellow paint. I was continue reading …