AFTER MY SON HIT ME, I SET THE LACE TABLE, COOKED A SOUTHERN FEAST, AND INVITED WITNESSES TO BREAK THE SILENCE, TURNING A CHRISTMAS SETTING INTO ACCOUNTABILITY, BOUNDARIES, AND CONSEQUENCES, WHERE GOOD CHINA, CALM VOICES, AND A SHERIFF ENDED YEARS OF FEAR AND RECLAIMED DIGNITY FOR A MOTHER WHO CHOSE PROTECTION OVER APOLOGY AND PEACE
I did not cry out when my son struck me. The kitchen stayed painfully ordinary, the clatter of a spoon louder than the blow itself. In that moment, I understood he no longer saw me as his mother, but as an obstacle—proof that years of excused anger had crossed a line I once believed was…
