The Slap

I never expected my husband to look at me like I was the monster.

It happened on a Sunday afternoon at our house outside Denver.

My six-month-old son, Leo, had been crying for almost twenty minutes because he was overtired.

I was upstairs changing his sheets when I heard my mother-in-law, Diane, snap, "Enough!"

Then Leo's cry changed. It turned sharp, shocked.

I ran downstairs so fast I nearly missed the last step.

Diane was standing beside the couch, and my baby was on the carpet below her, wailing in shock.

"What did you do?" I shouted.

"He wouldn't stop crying," she said, like that answered everything.

I scooped Leo into my arms and checked him over while my hands shook.

Diane rolled her eyes. "You young mothers baby these kids too much."

Something inside me snapped.

I handed Leo safely to my sister, who'd just rushed in from the kitchen.

Then I turned and slapped Diane across the face.

The room went dead silent.

Diane stared at me, one hand pressed to her cheek. "You hit me?"

"You will never touch my son like that again."

That was the exact moment my husband, Colin, walked through the front door.

His mother burst into tears immediately. "Colin, she attacked me!"

I waited for him to ask about Leo. He didn't.

Instead he walked straight toward me. "Apologize to my mother."

I genuinely thought I'd misheard him.

"Colin, she threw our baby onto the floor because he was crying."

His expression barely moved. "She was frustrated, Sienna."

I went colder than I'd ever felt in my life.

Behind him, Diane smiled, thinking she'd already won.

Then my sister said quietly, "Colin, before you defend her again, you should know the nursery speaker recorded everything."

Diane's smile vanished.

But my sister wasn't looking at Diane anymore. She was looking at Colin.

"And there's something else on that recording you both need to hear."