Her children no longer spoke to her. She hated to admit it, but sometimes she preferred it that way. She couldn’t bear looking into their pained, soulless eyes.
She’d suffered too. She’d endured broken ribs, countless black eyes, busted lips and bloody noses. She knew the sound of his broad fist barreling into her flesh so well. Her children did too.
Her bag was light. There wasn’t much from this place she wanted to keep. She would drive across the country, show up on her daughter’s doorstep and beg her forgiveness, hoping she would let her in.
The Moral Mondays prompt this week is Better Late Than Never