Those words hurt more than any accusation could have.
I carefully removed her thick rubber gloves.
Her hands were cracked and swollen.
Her nails were damaged.
Cuts covered several fingers.
Fresh burns marked her forearms.
I slowly turned toward the living room.
“This meeting is officially over, and everyone has exactly five minutes to leave my house,” I announced firmly.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then a woman with short curly hair gave a dismissive laugh.
“Oh, son, don’t exaggerate like that, your mother is just teaching them proper household discipline,” she said.
“I am not your son, and this is not my mother’s apartment, as it belongs entirely to Jessica and me, so get out right now,” I shouted.
My mother slammed her fist onto the table.
“I am your mother, and are you really going to humiliate me publicly for that useless woman?” she screamed.
“No, you are humiliating yourself,” I replied coldly.
