My mom marries my boyfriend, 1

the scent of steak and coffee meant I’d fallen back into orbit,

that my bruise could be buried under scrambled eggs and fabricated remorse.

Instead, he walked into a kitchen that had turned into a quiet tribunal:

his father at the stove, a lawyer at the table, my injuries preserved in photos and timestamps.

No one raised their voice. No one pleaded.

They continue reading …