You think anger feels hot.
Sometimes it does. Sometimes it rises fast, bright, and reckless, making your hands shake and your voice sharpen. But the kind of anger that arrives when your own son calls the mother of his five children “old and fat” is different. It comes cold. Precise. It slips into your bones and sits there with perfect posture, waiting for the right moment to move.
That is the anger you carry all the way to their house.
You do not call ahead. You do not warn anyone. There are visits a mother makes out of courtesy, and there are visits she makes because decency has been murdered and someone needs to identify the body.
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