Chapter 2
She didn’t wait for an answer. She flicked her wrist and tossed the hairpin toward the wastebasket in the corner.
The dining room fell into a horrifying, absolute silence.
Emily didn’t flush with anger. Her expression shifted into a cold, terrifying stillness. She stood slowly, her chair scraping against the hardwood.
“Pick it up, Vanessa,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. It was a command.
My mother slammed her silver fork down. “Emily! Do not use that tone in my house. You’re ruining Christmas.”
“I didn’t start this,” Emily replied, eyes locked on Vanessa. “But I’m finished smiling while she spits on me in front of my daughter. Pick it up.”
Our seven-year-old, Lily, sat frozen in her velvet dress, clutching her glass of milk, wide eyes darting between the adults.
Vanessa scoffed and crossed her arms. “Oh, please. Don’t act like a martyr. Your kid probably hears worse language at the public school you insist on sending her to.”
“She hears worse here,” Emily fired back.
That was the second my mother erupted. Margaret had never needed physical violence to command a room; her disappointment was usually weapon enough. But a strange, frantic, manic energy twisted her face that night.
She lunged around the table and closed the distance in two long strides.
May you like
I started to stand — a second too late.
Margaret didn’t just slap her. She struck Emily with a closed, panicked fury, hard enough to throw her off balance. Emily stumbled backward, her hip crashing into the antique bar cart.
