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It's been almost a year since I left my job to stay at home. But once you've worked in the field of domestic violence, it never leaves you. At least it hasn't for me. As I rolled up to the check out with two pissed off and tired kids, I saw her. My heart skipped a beat. I was at once happy to see her (because she was alive) and sad. I was sad because standing right behind her was her husband. Her face was red with drink and she held in her hands the big bottle of cheap vodka. Her husband towered over her small frame. He has almost two feet on her and at least 100 pounds. I immediately remember the last time I saw her. Horribly beaten, her face bruised. Eye swollen shut. Stitches. Limping.  And my stomach turned...  Read More

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