In the kitchen, before I set a single place at that table, I had photographed the swelling coming up along my wrist and sent the image to Lorna with the time stamp intact.

That was not the first such photograph she had from me.

A month earlier, a doctor had documented a bruise on my shoulder, from another of Roman’s arguments, and written a report; I had kept it, said nothing, and waited.

And the smart doorbell at my own front door — the one Roman never thought about — had recorded him, earlier that very evening, telling me he would throw me out of my grandmother’s house if I made trouble.

None of it had been rage on my part.