On my birthday, my father walked in, looked at my b:ruised face, and asked, “Sweetheart… who did this to you?” Before I could speak, my husband smirked and said, “I did. Gave her a sl:ap instead of congratulations.”

On the morning of my birthday, my father walked into my kitchen holding a white bakery box, ready to celebrate.

Instead, he stopped cold.

“Sweetheart… why is your face covered in bruises?”

The cheerful warmth he carried disappeared the moment he saw me. I stood there with layers of makeup that couldn’t fully hide the dark marks along my cheek and jaw. My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the paper plates I was holding.

Before I could answer, my husband leaned back in his chair, completely at ease, sipping his coffee like nothing was wrong.

“Oh, that was me,” Derek said with a smirk. “Gave her a slap instead of congratulations.”