“You hit me,” she gasped. “Your own mother-in-law.”
I slapped her again.
Tyler started crying.
Sarah made a noise that was half scream, half outrage.
“The first one was for making my daughter bleed,” I said. “The second was for thinking a little girl is worth less than a little boy in my house.”
I am not proud of losing control.
I am not going to dress it up as something noble.
But I will also not pretend the worst thing that happened in that room was Sarah’s cheek turning red.
The worst thing was a grown woman standing over a bleeding toddler and still believing she had done nothing wrong.
The living room froze around us.
Tyler cried into his sleeve.
The soup kept popping softly in the kitchen.
The old wall clock kept ticking above the entryway.
The half-eaten hot dog sat on the paper plate with mustard smeared along the edge like an exhibit nobody had prepared but everyone could see.
