My son hit me last night and I stayed quiet. This morning, I laid out my lace tablecloth, baked a full Southern breakfast, and set the good china like it was Christmas. He came downstairs, saw the biscuits and grits, smirked, and said, “So you finally learned,” but his face changed the second he saw who was sitting at my table.

My name is Margaret Collins, and I am sixty-two years old. Last night, my son Daniel hit me. It wasn’t the first time he’d raised his voice, but it was the first time his hand landed on my cheek hard enough to make me taste blood. I didn’t scream. I didn’t call anyone. I stood there, steadying myself on the kitchen counter while he stormed out, slamming the door like a teenager instead of a grown man of thirty-four.
This morning, I woke before dawn, the way I always do. My face was swollen, but I covered it with powder and put on my pearl earrings. I laid out my lace tablecloth, the one my mother gave me when I married, and I cooked a full Southern breakfast—biscuits, sausage gravy, grits with butter, scrambled eggs, and bacon crisped just right. I set the good china, the plates we only use on Christmas and Easter.

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