He walked into the kitchen, and when he saw me, his anger just seemed to swell up.

He started yelling, saying it was my fault his life was a mess, that I cared more about the house and my old junk than I did about him.

I got up slowly and said, “Son, go to bed. You’re not well.”

That’s all it took. That was the trigger.

He came at me, a forty-one-year-old man, strong, against his own mother. He grabbed me by my arms and shook me so hard I felt my teeth rattle, and then he shoved me. I went flying into the china cabinet. The hardwood hit my back, and my head cracked against the glass.

And it didn’t stop there.

He raised his hand and slapped me across the face. The sound was loud. The pain was hot. I tasted iron in my mouth right away. My lip was split.