The makeup bag landed beside my bleeding lip like an insult wrapped in pink tissue. My husband smiled at my bruises as if they were nothing more than stains on a shirt.
“Use the concealer first. My mother is coming for lunch. Cover all that up and smile.”
— Daniel
Morning light cut across the bathroom mirror, bright and unforgiving. One eye was swollen. My cheek had turned purple overnight. There were fingerprints on my arm where he had dragged me away from the bedroom door — because I had dared to say, “I will not live with your mother.”
That was my crime.
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