I look at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. The handprint on my cheek is vivid and unmistakable, red and swelling, the outline of Deacon’s fingers clearly visible against my pale skin. By tomorrow it will be purple. By the day after, it will be that sickly yellow-green color of a healing bruise.
I smile at my reflection. It’s not a happy smile. It’s the smile of someone who has been pushed too far and is finally pushing back.
Let them laugh tonight. Let them think I’m broken and defeated. Let them believe they can treat me however they want because I have nowhere to go and no power to fight back.
Tomorrow morning, they’re going to learn different.
How I Got Here
To understand how I got here—to this cold guest room in this showcase house, to the moment my own son struck me—you have to understand who I was before, and what I gave up to get him here.
