My husband slapped my mother twice right in front of me and then demanded that if I didn’t throw her out of the apartment that very night, our marriage was finished.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t cry.

I simply lowered the heavy grocery bag onto the table and counted silently.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

During those five seconds, I watched all seven years of my marriage flash before my eyes.

That afternoon, when I arrived at our high-rise apartment in Milwaukee’s vibrant River North neighborhood, I was carrying expensive cuts of beef because I planned to prepare dinner for everyone.

My mother, Margaret, had been staying with us for three months, ever since my father passed away and she sold the small suburban house where they had spent decades building their life together.

The second I unlocked the front door, I heard a sharp, painful sound echo through the hallway.

Then another strike followed almost immediately.