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.”

“Are you deaf?” Mark roared.

And then, he shoved me.

It wasn’t a playful push. It was a violent, full-force shove intended to knock me to the ground. He put his weight behind it.

I stumbled backward. My heels caught on the edge of the Persian rug. I flailed, trying to catch my balance, but there was nothing to grab.

My head connected with the sharp corner of the oak doorframe.

CRACK.

The sound was sickeningly loud—the sound of bone meeting wood.

I hit the floor hard. For a second, the world went white. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Then, the pain arrived—a blinding, searing heat radiating from my temple.

I touched my forehead. My hand came away wet.

Blood. Thick, dark red blood. It dripped from my fingers, splashing onto the cream-colored carpet. It ran down my face, blinding my left eye.

“Oh god,” Agnes groaned.