For years, I was treading on eggshells in my own home. The most minor issue could unleash a wave of violence against me, an emotional explosion volcanic in its intensity.
My body bore the proof: bruises, scratches, even bite marks.
Despite such abuse, I knew I could never leave. Why? Because it was at the hands of my own daughter, Alexandra, then just 11 years old.
I dreaded even the most mundane interactions, never knowing what comment or request might set her off. I had to beg her to perform basic tasks, from showering to packing her schoolbag, knowing I would face her
To provide well-rounded coverage and a breadth of insight across various events, we rely on contributions from several staff writers, each bringing their own area of expertise to our publication.
