When my husband pulled my hair and twisted my arm, the pain intensified so much that the room seemed to spin. But even through the fog, I could see my son’s wide, terrified eyes. He nodded, barely a gasp. It was all he needed.
Noah, five years ago, rushed to the hallway table, his small hands shaking uncontrollably as he grabbed the phone. He dialed the number she’d taught him only once, whispering into the receiver like a secret protective spell. The number I prayed he’d never have to use.
“Grandpa… Dad’s hurting Mom!” His voice broke, brittle and trembling.
On the other end of the line, I heard a sharp intake of breath, a rustle, and then my father’s voice: low, trembling, held in check only by force of will.
The minutes that passed are like minerals. Noah clung to me, his small body trembling. I whispered words of reassurance I wasn’t sure I believed, listening to Mark’s footsteps echo back and forth, back and forth, as if waiting, considering, making a choice.
Then a sound broke the silence: the crunch of tires tearing up our gravel driveway. Mark jerked his head toward the window. His face paled. He knew exactly who had arrived.
Child Therapy
