When my sister Ruth finally found me, I was sitting on a twin bed in an upstairs room, my left eye still bruised. Marcus filled the doorway, blocking the exit. Ruth looked at my face and asked the question I’d choked on for months: “Why isn’t she living in the house she bought with Otis?” Marcus didn’t hesitate. He smiled and said, “That house is my wife’s now. And if my mother keeps talking, I’ll hit her again and she’ll wear that color for weeks.”

“A lawyer?” he said, voice rising. “Now you don’t trust me? Your own son?”

“It’s not that,” I whispered. “It’s just—”

“You know how much that costs,” he cut in. “You have money to pay for one? Because I’m not giving you a single cent for some stranger to look over family documents.”

He moved closer. Too close. His breath smelled like coffee and rage.

“Do it, Mama.”

“Marcus, please,” I begged. “Give me time. Let me think.”

“There is no time. I need it today. The lawyer is waiting.”

“Just give me a few days—”

Then it happened.

His hand came up fast, strong. The blow landed on my left eye. Pain exploded, white lights flashed, and I stumbled backward over the bed and hit the floor.

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