The sound cracked through the dining room like a gunshot. Pain exploded across my cheek, and I staggered back, one hand flying to the sting. The Thanksgiving turkey sat untouched on the table. Twelve faces stared. Some were frozen in shock. Others looked smug. No one—except my nine-year-old daughter, Emma—even spoke.
My husband, Maxwell, loomed over me, chest heaving with rage. “Don’t you ever humiliate me in front of my family again,” he sneered. His voice held no love—only threat. His mother grinned. His brother chuckled. I stood there, stunned, thinking: Did this just really happen?
