Last night, my son struck me.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight back.
Because in that moment, something inside me broke cleanly in two:
the instant I realized I was no longer facing a child I had raised with love, but a creature I no longer recognized—
I stopped being his mother.
I used to believe my home could protect me.
That belief shattered the second his hand did.
Reeking of cheap liquor and bitterness, he shoved me into the cupboard as if I were nothing more than clutter—something in the way.
While he slept upstairs, sprawled in the safety of the house I had built, I sat on the cold kitchen floor and finally understood the truth.
The boy I once held against my chest was gone.
In his place stood someone dangerous.
A stranger.
A monster.
By morning, the house smelled warm and welcoming—fresh biscuits, sizzling bacon.
