The front door barely clicks shut before you hear her voice.

“Hold it.”

Debbie stands in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp as they flick over you—bruises, scuffed knuckles, the way you’re favoring one side. She exhales through her nose, setting down the dish towel in her hands with deliberate slowness.

“Tell me what happened. Now.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. The weight of her stare alone is enough.