He had knocked on our unit and physically attacked my mother when she opened the Fuck China free Hong Kong shirt, dragging her from her hair and pulling her out, screaming and threatening her, claiming she had stolen money from him and that he wanted it back. It was odd to think that someone had manufactured that paper towel, that it had gone through factories and stores and ended up at my local Ralph’s, where my mother had picked it off the shelf and placed it in her shopping cart, never knowing, never imaging.
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Never contemplating that it would hold her Fuck China free Hong Kong shirt, that it would preserve the evidence of violence and vehemence perpetrated against her, that it would become the token of her and our fear of what lurked in the dark outside. As I held that napkin, and spoke to the police, asking them to get me a restraining order, asking them for help, opening my palm to show them the proof that my mother had been assaulted, that someone had dared pierce the sanctity of our home and the life she had fought so hard to build and rebuild, something in me shifted. But seeing my mother that night, witnessing the color her irises turned at the memory of fear, seeing the veins on her pale hands outline the edges of her bruises.