The right to hand down the truth.

Before she left, she asked me, “Grandma, were you scared, that day in court?” And I remembered my coat, and my cane, and my son laughing, and the photographs of my bruises being displayed as evidence against me, and the little black recorder hidden in my pocket.

“Yes,” I told her.

“I was terrified.” She looked surprised.

“But you seemed so strong.” And I took her hand, and I told her the truest thing I know, the thing it took me seventy-one years and a courtroom to learn.

“That is what people misunderstand about strength,” I said.