And on Friday mornings I started going to a support group for older adults who had experienced abuse by relatives.

At the first meeting I sat near the door, telling myself I would stay only ten minutes.

The room was in the basement of a community clinic.

Someone had arranged a kettle of hot water, paper cups, and a plate of crackers.

There were six other people there.

A retired nurse whose granddaughter had taken her pension card.

A widower who had been threatened into signing over his savings.

A man whose adult son had punched him during an argument about rent.