Not the arguing. Not my sister’s expression. Not even my father’s insistence that I was overreacting.
My mother had seen my son hurt, heard him say he could not breathe properly, and still decided the person who needed protecting was somebody else.
I kept thinking about the moment I had first looked down at him on the floor.
He had been beaten by his 10-year-old cousin, and he was gasping with a broken rib, one small hand pressed against his side as if he could somehow hold the pain in place.
Every attempt to move made his body tighten.
He was six.
He was scared.
He was hurting.
