My son struck me last night, and I said nothing. In that silence, I understood one thing: if he is no longer a son but a monster, then I will no longer be a 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.

I laid out the lace tablecloth, arranged the dishes carefully, and set the table as if for a celebration.
And in a way, it was.

He came downstairs smiling.
Saw the food.
Saw my swollen lip, the dark bruise blooming beneath my eye—
and sneered.
“So you finally learned your place,” he said, reaching for a biscuit.

I said nothing.
I only watched the clock.

At exactly eight, the doorbell rang.