My son h.i.t me last night, and I stayed silent. This morning, I laid out my lace tablecloth, made a full Southern breakfast, and then set the fine china like it was Christmas.

My name is Beatrice Winslow, and I turned sixty two this past spring. I live in a modest house on the southern edge of Ashford, Georgia, where the trees grow tall and the cicadas sing like clockwork each evening. The morning after my son hurt me, those cicadas seemed louder than ever, as if they knew what had happened and wanted to drown out the memory. My son’s name is Jared Winslow, and at thirty three years old, he still lives in my home. I once believed that allowing him to stay was being a good mother. Now I am not so sure.

Last night, his rage caught me off guard. He had raised his voice at me many times before, but rage had never crossed from sound to touch until then. The strike surprised both of us. Pain blossomed along my cheek, sharp and electric. The metallic taste filled my mouth, and for a moment the kitchen blurred as if I were underwater. He stared at me afterward, chest heaving, then stormed out the door with the immaturity of someone half his age, not a man in his thirties. The door slammed so hard that a picture frame rattled against the wall.