"It is my face," I think, walking down the stairs, holding my small daughter's hand, "the part of me that I must show to everyone, you bastard, you asshole son of a bitch."

"Daddy made pancakes," Grace is saying and I think, "I hate him, I hate your daddy," but I smile. "And you like pancakes, don't you?"

I lock the back door; it is a symbolic act, locking him out, locking out my husband who has keys, who can get to me anytime he wants, but I lock the door anyway, feel a small comfort at the solid thunk of the deadbolt.

I think of him, driving now to work, this morning's fist to his wife's face already the past for him, his mind dismissing it and turning to the day ahead. If I had a gun I would shoot him next time he approached me from behind.

I dress 2-year-old Joseph and have a cup of coffee. I am past the shock, past the hysteria now, and well into anger. This is the most powerful stage, the one where I feel strongest, but it is also the most fleeting stage. I know the stink of shame will be next and I must brace myself for that. I try to concentrate on the chatter of my children, on the classes I will teach, try not to think of the faces of my students when I walk into the room.

The anger will return; the anger is always there; it simmers at a low boil every second of my life. But in the twisted way of those who endure and try to analyze why a loved one should hate them and hurt them, the anger will become self-directed, and two days from now, three, I will find myself mouthing the words he dictates: "I'm sorry I made you mad. I'm sorry I neglected you. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

Tonight, he will bring flowers and he will make dinner. He will be especially patient with and entertaining for the children. Perhaps he will wince when he looks at me and squeeze my arm, whisper in a choked voice, "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Friday: A hero's retreat: Sometimes the bravest warriors run away.

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