My son h.it me last night and I stayed quiet. This morning, I laid out my lace tablecloth, baked a full Southern breakfast, and then set the good china like it was Christmas.

I am Margaret Collins, sixty-two years old. Last night my son, Daniel, str:uck me. He had shouted before—many times—yet this was the first time his hand connected hard enough to leave a metallic taste in my mouth. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t cry out. I braced myself against the kitchen counter as he stormed out, slamming the door with the petulance of a teenager rather than a thirty-four-year-old man.