Balling the material in my fist, I slowly lifted it past her navel to her ribs, revealing a smattering of ugly, fading bruises. For a moment, all I could see was my mother. All I could hear were the lies she told to cover up the abuse. As shit as our lives were, this was the part of it I refused to accept. “Who?” I said through gritted teeth. “The fucking Barrington quarterback?” She tugged the sweater from my hand, hiding the marks from my view. “No. Just let it go.” Her gaze met mine, hard and unreadable. “You know how this shit works. We’re just surviving, right?” An undercurrent of defeat
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