I never told my “mama boy” husband that I was the one who bought back his house and paid off all his debts. He believed his mother had saved him, while I was nothing more than a useless housewife. On Christmas Day, I spent the entire day preparing dinner, yet his mother refused to let me sit at the table. “You look filthy. I can’t enjoy my meal if I have to look at your face,” she said. I went to change my clothes and sat down again—only to be shoved so hard. “Don’t you understand? My mother doesn’t want to eat with you.” Blood streamed from my head, but they pretended not to see it. I calmly picked up my phone and called the police. “I’d like to report a crime,” I said. “Illegal trespassing and assault.”

Editoron

Chapter 2: Blood on the Hardwood

I returned to the dining room ten minutes later. They were already eating. Mark had carved the turkey, piling the best white meat onto his mother’s plate.

I pulled out my chair again. The screech of the wooden legs against the hardwood floor made Agnes wince.

“Finally,” she muttered, her mouth full. “Though that lipstick is a bit much, don’t you think? You look like a streetwalker.”

I ignored her. I reached for the serving spoon for the potatoes.

“I said,” Agnes raised her voice, “I don’t want to look at your face with that paint on it. Go wipe it off.”

My hand froze on the spoon. “No.”

The word hung in the air. Simple. Absolute.

Mark dropped his knife. He turned to me, his face flushing red. “Excuse me? Did you just say no to my mother?”

“I did,” I said calmly, serving myself a large scoop of potatoes. “I cooked the dinner. I dressed for dinner. I am eating dinner. If Agnes doesn’t like my lipstick, she can close her eyes.”

“You ungrateful little bitch,” Agnes hissed. She looked at Mark. “Are you going to let her talk to me like that in your own house? After everything I did to save this place for you?”

That was the trigger. The lie that held their world together.

Mark stood up. He was a large man, soft around the middle but heavy. He threw his napkin onto the table.

“Get up,” he commanded.

“I’m eating, Mark.”

“I said get up!” Mark screamed. He rounded the table in three strides.

Before I could react, he grabbed my upper arm. His fingers dug into my flesh, bruising instantly. He yanked me out of the chair.

“You are going to apologize to my mother, and then you are going to the bathroom to scrub that whore makeup off your face!” he shouted, his spit flying onto my cheek.

“Let go of me,” I warned, my voice low.

« Previous Next »