My mother, seventy-two years old, frail, with hands that had scrubbed floors so I could eat, was on her hands and knees. She was frantically stuffing her few, simple cardigans and a framed photograph of my late father into a black plastic trash bag. Her tears were falling heavily, spotting the pristine hardwood floor.
Standing over her, arms crossed, wearing a five-thousand-dollar silk loungewear set I had bought her for our anniversary, was my wife. Her face was twisted into a sneer of pure, unfiltered hatred.
I stood there in the doorway. The silence that followed was deafening.
CHAPTER 2
For a fraction of a second, the universe simply stopped.
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