I felt something settle inside me.
Not panic.
Not even anger.
Something quieter.
The understanding that I could no longer afford to trust anyone merely because I’d trusted them before.
***
My injuries still hurt.
The bruises along my arms had begun changing color.
My left shoulder throbbed whenever I moved too quickly.
The doctor had warned me that healing would take time.
But the physical pain wasn’t what kept me awake.
It was remembering Trevor’s face.
My only son.
Forty-four years old.
A father himself.
Standing in my living room, demanding the deed to a house he had never paid for.
When I refused, he struck me.
Again.
And again.
Thirty blows.
I remembered counting because I needed something to hold on to.
Something more reliable than the thought that my own child could do this.
Kristen stood in the doorway.
She didn’t intervene.
She watched until I fell against the sofa.
