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.

Twelve minutes later, Wyatt came back downstairs carrying a blue sports bag that he used to take to soccer practice when he was younger. Seeing that bag made me think of the sweet boy he used to be, but I knew I couldn’t let that memory weaken my resolve.

“I am not doing this for you,” he said to Harrison as he set the bag by the front door.

“It doesn’t have to be for me, as long as you do it,” Harrison replied.

Wyatt looked at me and for the first time in years, I saw shame and weariness in his eyes instead of pure arrogance.

“Are you ever going to let me come back home?” he asked in a whisper.

“That will depend entirely on what you do with this opportunity and whether I can ever feel safe with you again,” I answered.

“I thought you were just trying to scare me into behaving,” he admitted.

“No, I just wanted to stop losing my own life to your anger,” I said.

Harrison took the car keys and told Wyatt that if they were going, they had to leave for the airport right that second. No one celebrated the moment because true justice feels more like an agonizing operation than a grand victory.

Before he walked out the door, Wyatt asked one more time if I was truly afraid of him.