Tommy came through the front door walking like something hurt that he was not allowed to talk about. I was in the kitchen when I heard his slow, uneven footsteps on the porch. Normally, my eight-year-old burst through the door, dropped his backpack somewhere he shouldn’t, and asked what was for dinner before taking off his shoes. This time, his shoulders were hunched, his jaw clenched, and every movement seemed painfully careful.

I asked if he was okay. He said yes. I asked if something happened at his mother’s house. He said no. Then I asked him to sit at the kitchen table, and he flinched. It lasted less than a second, but I saw it. Tommy always looked me in the eyes when we talked. Now he stared at the floor. I lowered my voice. “Can I look at your back?” He stood still, then turned around and lifted his shirt. What I saw made me reach for my phone immediately. I called 911 before he could pull his shirt back down.