This was the man my mother had married in hope.

This was the man who had sent her flowers every week and sat beside her in church.

And here he was, face down on my porch because he had chosen, freely and against every warning, to put his hands on someone.

There was no victory in it worth the name.

There was only the end of a danger, which is a different and quieter thing than a win, and the two are easy to confuse only for people who have never had to end a real one.

Chapter 22 — The Sirens Were Already Coming