I locked my daughter in her room. She screamed, “He’s gonna get me! Mama, save me!”
Outside, he was attacking me—biting my arms, hands, chest—blood coming with every bite. I begged him to stop, but it was already too late. He wasn’t himself.
I crumpled beside the couch, feeling like a battered wife. But this wasn’t a spouse—it was my child.
And after the storm, he cried. He kissed my bruises with trembling lips and looked up at me with wide, desperate eyes: “Fix it.”
I wasn’t angry. I was empty. I was broken.
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