Last night my son h.i.t me and I didn’t cry. This morning I got out the nice tablecloth, served breakfast like on special occasions, and when he came downstairs smiling he said, “So you finally learned your lesson”… until he saw who was waiting for him at my table.

I didn’t even have time to breathe before his hand hit me in the face with a sharp, brutal force that left me stunned. He didn’t knock me down and there was no blood, but the worst part was the terrifying silence that followed the impact.

I stood with one hand on the counter, listening to the hum of the refrigerator while Wyatt glanced at me for a second and then simply shrugged his shoulders. He went up to his room and slammed the door, leaving me alone with a burning cheek and the realization that I was no longer safe.

At one in the morning, I picked up my phone and called the only man I didn’t want to call, but knew I absolutely had to.

“Leona?” Harrison answered with a sleepy voice from his home in Colorado.

“Wyatt hit me,” I said, and once those words were out, I knew there was no going back to the way things were.

There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line before he spoke with a firmness I hadn’t heard in many years.

“I am getting on a flight and I am going there right now,” he promised.