At 2:30 AM, my 71-year-old mother called me from the police station, bruised and terrified. “Your husband attacked me, then called the cops and said I threatened him,” she wept.

Mom came out fifteen minutes later.

I barely recognized her.

A bruise was forming along her cheekbone.

Her lower lip was swollen.

One sleeve of her blouse had been torn.

There were dark marks around her right forearm.

Finger-shaped.

She saw me.

Then started crying.

I crossed the room.

“Mom.”

I hugged her gently.

She winced.

“Sorry.”

“My ribs.”

I pulled back.

“What happened?”

Detective Keene interrupted softly.

“We need to preserve her statement.”

I nodded.