My hand hovered over the brass doorknob. The cold metal bit into my palm, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, icy chill that flooded my veins.
That voice.
It was my mother’s voice, but it sounded completely unrecognizable. Growing up in our quiet Louisiana suburban home, my mother had always spoken to me with a soft, southern drawl. She was the woman who baked pecan pies for the neighborhood, the woman who prayed over me every time I got a scrape on my knee. But the voice echoing through the window right now was sharp, venomous, and dripping with pure malice.
“Why the hell are you so slow?!” she screamed again, the sound of a heavy ceramic bowl slamming onto the kitchen counter vibrating through the wooden porch. “You can’t even get a simple dinner ready on time?! Do you think you’re some kind of royalty just because my son sends you scraps from Texas? Look at this floor! It’s filthy!”
