My son s:truck me last night, and I said nothing. This morning, I spread out my lace tablecloth, cooked a full Southern breakfast, and brought out the fine china as if it were a holiday. When he came downstairs, he took one look at the biscuits and grits, smirked, and said, “Looks like you finally learned.” But the smile vanished the moment he noticed who was seated at the table.

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.