I’ve always been a peaceful woman. I raised my son on my own after my Robert passed. Worked two jobs so he’d never want for anything. But until about six hours ago, I didn’t know I was sleeping with the enemy right under my own roof.

It all happened, or maybe it all fell apart, around three o’clock in the morning.

Jeremiah came home.

I was in the kitchen, sitting in my rocking chair, listening to a hymn on the radio, real low to calm my nerves. It was raining hard outside, but the sound that startled me was the key scraping in the front door, all rough-like.

He stumbled in, smelling of cheap bourbon and cigarettes. I stayed quiet. He threw his keys on the hall table, and I heard something break. It was my ceramic vase, the blue one my grandmother gave me. He didn’t even look back.