When I came home late from the hospital, my husband slapped me hard and screamed, “Do you know what time it is, you useless b!.tch?

I took a sip of my tea, listening to the wind rustle through the massive oak trees surrounding the property.

My lawyer, a terrifyingly competent former JAG officer Arthur had hired, had called me yesterday afternoon. The legal assault had been just as devastating as Arthur’s physical one, albeit much slower.

Leo had accepted a plea deal to avoid a public trial that would have undoubtedly ruined his career permanently. He had been sentenced to seven years in a state penitentiary for felony domestic battery resulting in severe bodily harm, aggravated by the context of my recent medical trauma. Arthur’s legal team had been merciless. They had ensured the presiding judge saw every ER medical record, every text message Leo ignored, and every ounce of cruelty he had inflicted.