Dear Priscilla Bennett Friends,

Harry and I just got back from the farmer’s market down by the pier and put away all the goodies we got for dinner and the week. We love all the fresh vegetables and fruits. Harry picked out his favorite yellow and white corn, and I got the white for myself—fresh tomatoes and peaches followed along with Harry’s favorite cider donuts—not to mention two big bunches of sunflowers at the check out. They always remind me of summer and playing with my childhood friend, Julie. Her house sat on the edge of a sunflower field, and we would play hide-and-seek as we raced through the rows and crouched down behind their big floppy heads for cover trying not to laugh to escape discovery.

I didn’t see her for years and heard that she had joined an organization to help feed starving children and was traveling around the world. Then one night, she showed up in the emergency room with a broken jaw and concussion. I didn’t recognize her at first. “Pris, it’s me, Julie,” she whispered taking my hand. She looked tattered and worn—spark all gone. “I didn’t know you were back. It’s so good to see you except what happened?” She spoke slowly and said her husband had beaten her. “He didn’t like the lentil soup I made for him, so he threw it in the garbage and came after me.” She said it quietly, matter-of-factly as if it was expected—and it was. “Julie, you have to go to the police and report him. You have to leave. Come stay with me.” “Oh, I couldn’t do that. He is the police, Pris. He’s the chief. Besides, how would I feed my three kids? Just fix me up, and I’ll be out of here.” I did what I could to help, and I haven’t seen her since that night.

Take good care of yourselves,