Just hours earlier, I had been in the kitchen, trembling while basting the turkey. The bruises on my ribs still hurt. They were from “lessons” Maxwell had taught me the week before. But I cleaned and plated everything, hiding my cyclone of pain from visiting eyes.
Emma sat at the counter, doing “homework” but clearly watching my every move. She knew the warning signs better than I did—how Maxwell’s shoulders tensed before a tirade, how silence preceded his worst moments. She had asked me gently, “Mom, are you okay?” My lie came fast: “I’m fine,” I’d said, and she pressed back: “No, you’re not.” Her insight left me heartbroken but grateful.
