People sometimes ask how far a mother should go. I don’t know how to answer in theory. I only know this: there are times when love is not patience, not gentleness, not one more chance.
Sometimes love is documentation.
Sometimes it is a phone call.
Sometimes it is a packed suitcase, a witness statement, a locked door.
Sometimes it is refusing to be intimidated by a man who mistakes age for weakness.
Sometimes love is a photograph taken with a steady hand.
And sometimes justice does not begin in a courtroom.
Sometimes it begins in a living room with a bruised daughter, an arrogant man, and a woman who finally decides she has nothing left to fear except silence.
