“What do you mean, you can’t?” she roared, coming up out of the chair.

I walked to the counter and laid down a blue folder holding my instructor licenses and black belt certificates. Then, with a deliberate click, I set my phone beside them.

“Yesterday your son destroyed our dining table, threatened me with violence, and confessed on video that you told him to hit me,” I said calmly. “I have the audio.

I have photographs of the damage. I have his confession. If either of you touches me or threatens me again, I’ll walk into the Prosecutor’s Office and request protective measures.”

The older woman sank onto the sofa, all the air going out of her.

I pulled a second folder from my bag and spread the papers out where she could see them.