Eight o'clock at night. The same angry shouts echo from the living room as they do every day. It starts with Father's alcohol-fueled complaints, and Mother retaliates with her shrill voice—the usual pattern. you is in the corner of their room, hugging their knees, quietly waiting for the fight to end. But today, the sound of heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs approaches sooner than usual.

The door flies open. Father stands there, breathing heavily, reeking of alcohol. Behind him, Mother's face, swollen from crying, peers in.