On my birthday, my father walked in, looked at my bruised face, and asked, “Sweetheart… who did this to you?” Before I could speak, my husband smirked and said, “I did. Gave her a slap instead of congratulations.” My father slowly took off his watch and told me, “Step outside.” But when my mother-in-law dropped to all fours and crawled away first, I knew this day was about to end very differently.
My husband slapped me before the candles stopped smoking. Then he told twelve dinner guests it was the only birthday gift I deserved. The room went silent except for thirty-two candles sinking into frosting. No one moved. Even the pianist in the adjoining room stopped playing before the note faded. I tasted blood and kept…