In 1981, after years of escalating physical and emotional abuse, and after threatening me with a gun he bought in a bar for $25, he finally shot me. By a miracle, I managed to push the gun away from my stomach and heart, and I only sustained a wound on my shoulder. I eventually found the courage to leave, and I lived to see my son grow up and to build a new life for me. But being shot changed me. It haunts me to think that my life may have ended that day, and I would have missed the very best part of my life. My son would never have known me. It would have destroyed my family.