I found somewhere quiet to sit and stayed there until my hands stopped trembling.
My cheek still hurt.
Every time I moved my mouth, I remembered the moment Deacon struck me.
I wished I could forget it.
But forgetting would not change what happened, and I was tired of making painful things disappear just because facing them was difficult.
I reached into my purse and took out a tissue.
There was a small mirror tucked into the side pocket, one I carried because I sometimes needed to check whether my face had turned pale after a coughing spell.
I opened it.
The swelling was becoming more noticeable.
I looked at myself for a long time.
Then I closed the mirror.
I didn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon examining the damage as though the mark on my face were the only thing that mattered.
The worst injury wasn't something I could see.
It was the knowledge that my son had looked directly at me, understood that I was frightened and struggling to breathe, and still believed he had the right to hurt me.
I had to accept that before I could decide what came next.
My phone remained silent.
I checked it once, then slipped it back into my purse.
I wasn't going to spend the afternoon waiting for Deacon to tell me how I should feel.
That was another habit I needed to break.
For years, his reactions had determined the direction of our conversations.
If he became impatient, I became quieter.
If he grew defensive, I softened my words.
If he accused me of making a problem out of nothing, I searched for ways to explain why the problem mattered.
I had done it so often that I barely noticed anymore.
Now I wondered how much of myself I had hidden simply to make life easier for him.
I thought about the little apartment on the east side of Columbus.
It had been small, but I had kept it clean.
The kitchen table had one uneven leg, and I used to fold a piece of cardboard beneath it to keep the dishes from rattling whenever we ate.
Deacon never seemed to mind.
When he was young, he would sit at that table doing his homework while I prepared dinner.
Sometimes he asked questions faster than I could answer them.
Sometimes he complained about school.
Sometimes he told me things that made me laugh so hard I had to sit down.
We had been poor, but we had our moments.
I didn't regret those years.
I regretted only how easily I had allowed the memories to become an excuse for the man he was now.
A childhood memory could explain why I loved him.
It could not justify what he had done.
I rubbed my hands together and tried to settle my thoughts.
I didn't know what the person I had called would do with the information I had shared.
I had explained what happened as plainly as I could.
There was no need to invent anything or make the incident sound worse than it was.
A slap was enough.
The fact that it came from my son was enough.
The fact that I was seventy-three, with damaged lungs and difficulty breathing around smoke, made the circumstances even more frightening.
I had not called because I wanted to see him suffer.
I had called because I could no longer pretend that keeping quiet was helping anyone.
My phone finally rang.
I startled so badly that I nearly dropped it.
For a moment, I thought it was Deacon.
Then I saw that the number belonged to the person I had contacted earlier.
I answered.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end asked how I was doing.
I looked down at my hands.
"I'm all right enough to talk."
I heard a brief pause.
Then came another question about what had happened.
I explained again, keeping my words simple.
I described the kitchen, the cigarette smoke, and my request that Sloan smoke outside.
I told the person how Deacon had reacted.
I repeated the words he had used after hitting me.
Saying them aloud made them sound even uglier.
I had tried to soften them in my memory.
I couldn't do that while speaking them to someone else.
The person listened.
Nobody interrupted to ask whether I had provoked him.
Nobody suggested that I should apologize for upsetting his wife.
For once, I didn't have to defend the reason I had asked for fresh air.
When the conversation ended, I sat quietly.
I was surprised by how much relief I felt simply because someone had listened without asking me to make excuses.
I had not realized how badly I needed that.
I was still worried about Deacon.
I was still afraid of what might happen when he learned that I had spoken about the incident.
But I no longer felt entirely alone with it.
That mattered.
I checked the time again.
The afternoon was moving forward, even though I felt stuck inside the same terrible moment.
I decided I needed to take care of my body before I tried to sort out anything else.
My breathing had improved, but my chest still felt tight.
I knew better than to ignore it.
I had learned the hard way that damaged lungs did not become healthier simply because I wanted to avoid worrying people.
I took a few careful breaths and rested.
While I sat there, I thought about what I would say if Deacon called.
The old answer came quickly.
I would tell him that I was fine.
I would tell him not to worry.
I would probably apologize for upsetting him.
I could hear the words before I spoke them.
Then I imagined looking at my swollen cheek while saying them.
The thought stopped me.
Why should I reassure the person who had hurt me before he had even acknowledged what he had done?
Why should I make his discomfort my responsibility?
I didn't have an answer that could justify it.
I had spent years believing that a mother's love meant giving her child another chance.
But a chance was not the same as an excuse.
If Deacon wanted to repair our relationship, he would have to recognize the harm he had caused.
I could not do that work for him.
I could not apologize on his behalf.
And I could not promise that everything would be fine simply because I wanted it to be.
The realization was painful, but it was also strangely freeing.
For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to imagine a future in which I didn't automatically agree to whatever Deacon wanted.
I could still love him.
I could still hope for a better relationship.
But I would not pretend that love required me to accept being treated badly.
I had finally drawn a line.
It was a small line, perhaps.
It was also the first one I had drawn in years.
I put my phone away and looked at the street.
The traffic continued.
The afternoon continued.
And I began to understand that my life would continue too, even if my relationship with my son changed in ways I had never wanted.
I was frightened of that possibility.
I was frightened of losing him.
But I was more frightened now of losing the last bit of self-respect I had left by pretending that his behavior was acceptable.
I had spent enough of my life making myself smaller to protect his feelings.
I wasn't going to do it again that afternoon.
Not for the cigarette.
Not for the slap.
Not for the sake of keeping the family story neat and comfortable.
Whatever happened next, I would tell the truth.
And I would let Deacon decide what he intended to do with it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The First Time I Considered That My Silence Had Helped Him, I Finally Understood Why Another Apology Would Not Be Enough
I Thought My Son Would Protect Me, Until I Asked His Wife for One Small Favor in Their Kitchen
Part 5 of 20
