Part 3Late-Life Luggage

To take my mother away from that house, I poured all my energy into studying. After getting into a top university, I never stopped urging her to divorce him. But back then, my brother was getting ready to marry. My mother said her children were both "flesh and blood," and she had to stay to help him with the wedding arrangements.

That’s just the kind of person my mother was. She was endlessly loving and nurturing to everyone else, but utterly clueless about loving herself.

After Brittany moved in, she took advantage of my father and brother's backing to blatantly exploit my mother. Every meal had to have at least four different dishes, or else Mom wasn't "taking her seriously." If someone in Brittany's family got sick, my mother had to make nourishing soups daily and visit them, or else she wasn't "taking her seriously." My mother had to hand-wash Brittany’s intimate clothing every day, or else she wasn't "taking her seriously."

My brother had no objections to any of this. In fact, he felt my mother should be even more attentive. My father also saw no problem. He felt incredibly proud when entertaining his in-laws. Both father and son were obsessed with appearances.

So, when I smashed that stack of dishes in the living room, their faces turned purple with rage.

"Mia Hayes, what the hell are you doing, making a scene like that?" My brother looked ready to charge me, but his mother-in-law held him back.

I smiled, a cold, sharp edge to my lips. "I’m 'talking to' my mother. She's divorcing, so there's no need for her to cook and clean for you leeches anymore. Even a dog, fed a few times, knows to wag its tail. You lot are less human than a canine."

At my words, the faces in the living room shifted, turning ugly. Brittany, in particular, tore off all pretenses and began to shriek at me.

My mother, hearing the commotion, rushed in from the kitchen. The moment my father saw her, he unleashed a torrent of curses. "Eleanor, look at what kind of monster you raised!"

My mother, gentle by nature, had never cursed anyone in her life. Her lips trembled, but for a long moment, no words of rebuttal came out. In the end, she simply whispered, "Frankie, I told you. I want a divorce."

My father’s voice climbed higher. "Then pack your bags right now! If you want to leave, damn it, then leave! You think I'm giving you a choice?"

The others in the living room made a few half-hearted attempts to mediate. I wanted to retort, but my mother gently patted my hand, shaking her head. I reluctantly followed her into the bedroom. Just before I closed the door, I heard my brother snarl, "Two ungrateful bitches."