The truth is, I used to hit. (I’ve stopped—when? Decades ago now.) For example, I’d slap my husband’s arm in what was meant to be a playful way. Not hard. Well, a slap hard enough to leave a red mark on my son. Briefly. That was bad. This is my confession. The screaming was bad. The frightening loss of temper was bad. The irritability was bad. I regret all of it. Mea culpa. Je regret. In every language, I am sorry. I don’t know where that oral and physical violence came from. I was slapped just once as a child, but not beaten, not yelled at or berated, as best I can recall. I remember the abuse suffered by my peers. I don’t recall being spanked, just the one slap from my mother. [She did not remember doing this.]