I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stayed there, crumpled up, looking at him.

And him? He just huffed, turned his back, and went upstairs, leaving his mother bleeding in the kitchen.

The silence in the house after that was heavy, you know? The kind of quiet after something breaks and there’s no fixing it.

I went to the little half-bath mirror. I washed my face with cold water. I saw the cut on my lip, the start of a bruise on my cheek. In that moment, looking into my own eyes, I didn’t see a victim.

I saw the Gwendolyn who survived too much to put up with that.

I decided right then and there, that was the last time.

I went back to the kitchen, cleaned up the blood, and instead of going to bed to cry, I started cooking. It was the only thing I could do to keep from losing my mind.