She felt her body tense up the instant he walked in the door. She knew it was going to be bad, even before she saw his face. A certain quality in the sound of his footsteps as he walked through the foyer was enough. She felt her heart-rate increase as she forced herself to continue washing the dishes.

He entered the kitchen without saying a word, snatched up a bottle of scotch and headed for the den. She instinctively went and checked on her son. He was still napping on his little bed. She found herself wishing with all of her heart that he would just continue to sleep through the rest of the evening. But she knew that this wouldn’t happen.

The image kept entering her mind, over and over again, despite her best efforts to block it out. The incident had occurred three days ago and she hadn’t been able to think about anything else since. Her husband had come home in a dark mood, just like today, and his normal abrasiveness had blossomed into outright cruelty. Her son was only two years old, and until the incident occurred she hadn’t felt the need to worry about him yet. After all, he was still practically a baby.

The boy had merely been attempting to gain his father’s attention, but only succeeded in severely annoying him. After one verbal warning, he had slapped the poor child to the floor.

She had known better than to say anything. She had just picked up her son and rushed off with him into the other room, trying as best as she could to comfort him.

She had been trying to convince herself that it wouldn’t happen again, but she couldn’t quite believe it. The plain, simple, horrific fact was that there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Women and their children were mostly regarded as their husband’s property. She also knew that if she tried to leave him, he would kill her in an instant. She constantly cursed herself now for agreeing to marry him.

She walked into the den, forcing a smile on her lips. “Dinner is almost ready.”

He grunted and took a long drink from his bottle. He already appeared to be quite drunk.

She retreated back into the kitchen, and her little boy ran past her. She practically lunged at him, trying to stop him from entering the den, and he squealed with glee, thinking that his mommy was playing with him. She told herself to calm down. After all, he was probably feeling guilty enough about it that he wouldn’t do it again . . . for awhile.

Before she could even finish setting the table, she heard her husband’s voice booming through the house. “Get away from me you little rat!”

She stopped breathing. In the next instant, she was sprinting into the den. Her husband looked up, startled at her rapid entrance, and momentarily forgot what he was about to do. He sat with his fist cocked back, about to punch his son in the face.

Rationality was abruptly ejected from her mind by instinct, fear, and rage. “Stop it, you bastard!”

It was bad enough that she yelled at him, but her choice of words couldn’t have been any worse. Her husband had been an illegitimate child and he had always been burdened with the shame of it. He was on his feet in an instant, his eyes glazed with intoxication and blind fury. The intensity of emotion in the air must have registered with the toddler because he suddenly fled from the room.

As her husband advanced on her, she backed up until she bumped into the fireplace. She glanced down, seeing the iron poker, and then it was in her hand. She had just enough time to swing it before he was upon her. It struck him hard on the shoulder and he staggered to one side, tripped over his own feet and fell forward. He reached up a little bit too late to catch himself and his head smashed into the brick mantel.

She raised the poker to strike again, but stopped when she realized that he wasn’t moving. She checked him for signs of life. There were none.

Her confession had poured out of her in one long, rapid sentence and then the tears poured down her cheeks. He had tried to console her, but her guilt was tremendous.

It was hard for him to imagine his mother swinging a fireplace poker at someone. She had always been such a gentle person. She was the one who had encouraged him to follow his dream of being an artist. It had been difficult for him at first, and there had been a short period when he had become preoccupied with politics, but his true calling had triumphed in the end.

He paused and backed away from the painting, examining it for a moment. It was finished. He grunted in approval, stepped up to the canvas and dipped his brush into a dab of black paint. He quickly brushed his name onto the bottom corner of the work: Adolf Hitler.