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AFTER MY SON HIT ME, I SET THE LACE TABLE, COOKED A SOUTHERN FEAST, AND INVITED WITNESSES TO BREAK THE SILENCE, TURNING A CHRISTMAS SETTING INTO ACCOUNTABILITY, BOUNDARIES, AND CONSEQUENCES, WHERE GOOD CHINA, CALM VOICES, AND A SHERIFF ENDED YEARS OF FEAR AND RECLAIMED DIGNITY FOR A MOTHER WHO CHOSE PROTECTION OVER APOLOGY AND PEACE

I did not cry out when my son struck me. The kitchen remained painfully ordinary—the small, obscene sound of a spoon hitting the floor echoing louder than the blow itself.…