I did not call the police. I did not call anyone. I stood in the kitchen, the overhead light buzzing, and stared at the wooden spoon that had fallen to the floor. Silence returned like fog settling over the yard.
I woke before sunrise. My cheek had taken on a swollen hue that concealer struggled to hide. It felt tender beneath my fingertips, but I forced myself not to flinch. I washed my face carefully, set my hair, and placed my favorite pearl earrings on, the ones my late mother had given me when I turned twenty one. Then I walked to the linen closet and reached for the lace tablecloth that had not seen daylight since Christmas.
On the table, I laid out breakfast with deliberate care. Fluffy biscuits, buttered grits, scrambled eggs cooked low and slow, bacon that curled at the edges just enough. A bowl of sausage gravy with flecks of pepper sat beside the crystal salt shaker. I pulled out the good china, the set with tiny blue roses painted around the rim. I felt my heartbeat in my jaw as I set each piece down. It kept time like a metronome.