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.

Daniel came downstairs late, hoodie on, phone in hand. He smelled the food and smirked.
“So you finally learned,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Guess that slap knocked some sense into you.”
I didn’t answer. I poured coffee, my hands calm. He laughed under his breath, already reaching for a biscuit. Then he looked up.
The color drained from his face.
At the head of the table sat Sheriff Thomas Reed, hat placed neatly beside his plate. To his right was Pastor William Harris from First Baptist, hands folded, eyes steady. And beside them sat my sister Elaine, who flew in from Ohio last night after I made one quiet phone call.
Daniel’s mouth opened, then closed.
“What… what is this?” he stammered.
Sheriff Reed met his gaze. “Sit down, Daniel,” he said evenly. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”

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