I never told my “mama boy” husband that I was the one who bought back his house and paid off all his debts. He believed his mother had saved him, while I was nothing more than a useless housewife. On Christmas Day, I spent the entire day preparing dinner, yet his mother refused to let me sit at the table. “You look filthy. I can’t enjoy my meal if I have to look at your face,” she said. I went to change my clothes and sat down again—only to be shoved so hard. “Don’t you understand? My mother doesn’t want to eat with you.” Blood streamed from my head, but they pretended not to see it. I calmly picked up my phone and called the police. “I’d like to report a crime,” I said. “Illegal trespassing and assault.”

“But,” my father added, checking his watch. “Before you put him in the car… I believe the suspect needs to be secured. Perhaps you could give me five minutes with him in the garage? I need to… verify he isn’t carrying any concealed weapons. And educate him on the proper treatment of a lady.”

The room went silent. The rookie cop looked nervous. The Sergeant looked at the blood running down my face. He looked at Mark, the man who had done it.

The Sergeant looked at the ceiling. “I have to file some paperwork in the cruiser. My partner needs to check the perimeter. Take five, General. We didn’t see anything.”

“No!” Mark screamed. “Officer! No!”

My father grabbed Mark by the collar of his expensive shirt and dragged him toward the door leading to the garage. Mark’s heels skidded uselessly on the floor.

“Elena,” my father said over his shoulder. “Put some ice on that. I’ll be right back.”