And something older than thought took over. My right hand, scrabbling along the counter, found something hot and solid. The handle of the skillet.

I didn’t strategize. My fingers locked around the iron, and with a sound that came out of the bottom of me I hauled it up and held it there — a barrier between my child and the man walking toward us.

Walter stopped dead. His eyes went from the iron to my face, and he saw what was in it. I was not the polite nurse or the agreeable daughter-in-law. I was cornered, and I would have done whatever it took.

He blinked. He took one step back. Then another.

I kept the skillet up and moved sideways along the counter. I didn’t look at Corey as I passed him. I didn’t look at Lorraine. I kept my eyes on Walter until I reached the hallway, then I turned and ran out into the cold.

I was still holding it when I got into my car and slammed the locks down.