During my daughter’s baby shower, I walked in to find her on her hands and knees scrubbing spilled wine off the rug.

“Mom, maybe we should discuss this privately.”

“You lost the right to call me that,” I said.

A ripple spread across the guests.

Emily touched my arm. “What’s happening?”

I looked at my daughter, and the anger almost split me apart. She hid bruises that never appeared on skin: the drained bank accounts, the late-night insults, the way Brandon made her continue reading …