Every night my son took a shower at 3 a.m., and I kept telling myself it was just stress—until curiosity made me look through the bathroom door and I saw something so horrifying, so familiar, and so wicked that I left his home for a retirement community before sunrise… but I

seeking a hiding place, lying there trembling all over, biting my lip to keep from crying out.

The water in the bathroom was still running, rhythmic and cruel, the background music to my family’s tragedy, to my own cowardice.

Then the memories came flooding back, unstoppable, and the hellish years of living with my abusive husband flashed before my eyes.continue reading …