The first time my mother was beaten, I was only three. All I could do was cry and plead, “Dad, please, don’t hit Mom.”
The eight-hundredth time my mother was beaten, I was eighteen. I grabbed a rolling pin and grappled with my six-foot-tall father.
Though he knocked out two of my front teeth, tore out most of my hair, and kicked two of my ribs clean through, I fought with all my strength to shield my mother.
When the fight was over, before I could even get back to my feet, Mom rushed over and slapped me six times.
“You little monster! How dare you hit my darling husband!”
“I’ll beat you to death! Beat you to death!”
My chest tightened.
Fine! If that’s how it is, then next time someone hits you, I won’t lift a finger to help.
