“My bottom hurts.”
I lifted his shirt and froze—his back was covered in scars. I called my daughter-in-law. She laughed. “My father is a judge. What do you think you can do?”
I dialed 911, thinking I was saving him. I didn’t realize I was starting a war.
That winter morning, sunlight spilled across the Persian rug I’d bought in Beirut in 1982—back when shelling was my alarm clock. My life is quieter now: tea kettles, birds in the snow, gardening.
But as I looked at my grandson’s wounds, I felt that old instinct return.
I may seem like a harmless widow.
I’m not.