I didn’t weep when my son hit me last night. He exclaimed, “So you finally learned,” as he walked down smiling this morning after I pulled out the beautiful tablecloth and served breakfast like it was a major event. That is, until he realized who was waiting for him at my table.

The first time your child hits you, something inside you dies. Not from the bruise, but from the truth. You stop being “Mom” and become something… less. An obstacle. A wallet. A body in a house they believe they own. Last night, my son’s hand landed on my face. This morning, I laid out lace, china, and cof… Continues…

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