My son hit me and I stayed quiet. The next morning, I cooked a full feast. He smiled and said, “So you finally learned,” but his face changed the moment he saw who was sitting at the table.

My son laid a hand on me inside my own kitchen, and I didn’t say a word.

But the next morning, when he came downstairs thinking I’d just accepted his disrespect, he froze in sheer terror when he saw who was sitting at my dining room table.

I was sitting at the head of the table, smoothing out the lace tablecloth, when Jeremiah walked into the room with that air of his, like he owned the world. He hadn’t even noticed the swelling on my lip; he was so focused on himself. He grabbed a biscuit, took a bite, and started talking about how things were going to change in this house.