It was a brilliantly executed deflection. He weaponized my sacrifice to justify his abuse. Melissa seamlessly flanked him. “We keep Mom on a strict routine. Seniors absolutely thrive on routine. I read a medical article about it.”
I nodded slowly, absorbing the data. Lunch confirmed my darkest suspicions. Melissa set four proper places at the dining table, leaving a solitary plastic tray on the kitchen counter. “Mom prefers eating in her room,” Melissa declared.
I pulled out the heavy wooden chair directly beside mine. “Sit with me, Mom.”
The ambient temperature in the room plummeted. Sandra’s fork paused inches from her mouth. For three agonizing seconds, no one breathed. Then, my mother sank into the chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap like an insubordinate schoolchild waiting for the cane.
Melissa’s eyes narrowed into terrifying slits. “We have a specific system in this home, Iris. Everyone under this roof earns their keep. Mom understands that.”
