My son h.i.t me last night, and I stayed silent. This morning, I laid out my lace tablecloth, made a full Southern breakfast, and then set the fine china like it was Christmas.

My name is Beatrice Winslow, and I turned sixty two this past spring. I live in a modest house on the southern edge of Ashford, Georgia, where the trees grow tall and the cicadas sing like clockwork each evening. The morning after my son hurt me, those cicadas seemed louder than ever, as if they knew what had happened and wanted to drown out the memory. My son’s name is Jared Winslow, and at thirty three years old, he still lives in my home. I once believed that allowing him to stay was being a good mother. Now I am not so sure.

Last night, his rage caught me off guard. He had raised his voice at me many times before, but rage had never crossed from sound to touch until then. The strike surprised both of us. Pain blossomed along my cheek, sharp and electric. The metallic taste filled my mouth, and for a moment the kitchen blurred as if I were underwater. He stared at me afterward, chest heaving, then stormed out the door with the immaturity of someone half his age, not a man in his thirties. The door slammed so hard that a picture frame rattled against the wall.

I did not call the police. I did not call anyone. I stood in the kitchen, the overhead light buzzing, and stared at the wooden spoon that had fallen to the floor. Silence returned like fog settling over the yard.

I woke before sunrise. My cheek had taken on a swollen hue that concealer struggled to hide. It felt tender beneath my fingertips, but I forced myself not to flinch. I washed my face carefully, set my hair, and placed my favorite pearl earrings on, the ones my late mother had given me when I turned twenty one. Then I walked to the linen closet and reached for the lace tablecloth that had not seen daylight since Christmas.

On the table, I laid out breakfast with deliberate care. Fluffy biscuits, buttered grits, scrambled eggs cooked low and slow, bacon that curled at the edges just enough. A bowl of sausage gravy with flecks of pepper sat beside the crystal salt shaker. I pulled out the good china, the set with tiny blue roses painted around the rim. I felt my heartbeat in my jaw as I set each piece down. It kept time like a metronome.

At seven thirty, Jared shuffled downstairs. His sweatshirt hung loose on his frame. His phone was in his hand, his attention divided as always. The smell of breakfast caught him mid step. A crooked smile appeared on his lips.