The back of her hand stung where he’d hit it. All those years, all those arguments and now he’d finally turned to violence. It was such a shame that, when it came, it had been on her manicured paw after she broke that stupid cup. He’d just smacked her like a disobedient bloody pet. You can’t go to a refuge with a slightly red hand - she couldn’t even mention it to friends without it becoming another boring whine. She wouldn’t be a hero, or a martyr or a wide-eyed victim of her own trust.
She sighed, disappointment smarting more than her pride, and prayed for cancer.