He hit me last night. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, silent, as the sting bloomed across my cheek and the metallic taste of blood touched my tongue.
This morning, I laid out my finest lace tablecloth, cooked a full Southern breakfast, and set the holiday china. He came downstairs, cocky, smirking at the biscuits. But his expression changed the moment he saw who was waiting for him at the table.
I didn’t call the police. I didn’t tell the neighbors. I just held onto the counter until the room stopped spinning.
Before sunrise, I got out of bed like I always do. My face was sore and swollen, so I covered the bruises with powder and clipped on my mother’s old pearl earrings. I pulled out the tablecloth she passed down to me on my wedding day and got to work in the kitchen: homemade biscuits, creamy grits with butter, eggs, sausage gravy, and bacon—everything done just the way Daniel likes it. I even used the good dishes—the ones reserved for Easter and Christmas.
He eventually shuffled downstairs, wearing his hoodie and glued to his phone. As soon as he smelled the food, he smirked.
“Well, looks like you finally figured it out,” he said, grabbing a chair. “Guess you needed a little wake-up call.”
I said nothing. I calmly poured the coffee and placed it in front of him.
He chuckled, reaching for a biscuit—until he looked up.
Then he froze.
At the head of the table sat Sheriff Thomas Reed, his badge glinting in the morning light. Next to him was Pastor William Harris, hands folded, his expression unreadable. My sister Elaine was also there—she had caught a red-eye flight after I made a single phone call last night.
Sheriff Reed met his eyes. “Go ahead and sit down, Daniel. We’ve got something serious to discuss.”
No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the slow tick of the kitchen clock.
That breakfast wasn’t a peace offering. It wasn’t a surrender.
