He barely looked at it.
Tossed it aside.
Then, in front of everyone, he said he was tired of me showing up expecting gratitude in a house that had nothing to do with me.
So I told him calmly:
“Don’t forget who built the ground you’re standing on.”
That was enough.
He stood up.
Shoved me.
Then started hitting me.
And I counted.
Not because I was weak.
Because I was finished.
Each strike stripped something away—love, hope, excuses.
By the time he stopped, he was breathing like he had won.
Emily still looked at me like I was the problem.
I wiped the blood from my mouth.
Looked at my son.
