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“For who, Mam?”
Her eyes flashed with anger when she looked at me and spat out, “For my family.”
“For him,” I muttered under my breath.
My mother flinched, but I didn’t take my words back.
They were the truth.
“You can’t speak to me like this,” she snapped. “You have no idea how hard it is coming home every night to World War Three.”
I didn’t respond.
I had nothing to say.
If she truly believed that I didn’t know what it felt like to live in a war zone, then she was delusional as well as a neglectful mother.
“I’m tired of this, Shannon,” she said. “I’m exhausted from living like this. And I’m tired of being judged by my own children.”
“Well, join the club, Mam,” I bit out. “We’re all tired of living like this.”
“Don’t cheek me,” she warned. “I won’t put up with it, Shannon. I’m telling you now I will tell—”
“My father?” I filled in for her, tone high and pitchy. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it, Mam? You’re going to tell him on me?”
“You need to show me some respect, Shannon,” she growled. “I’m working myself to the bone to put you through school, and I sure as hell don’t appreciate you talking to me like I’m the shit on your shoe!”
“Well, I don’t appreciate being called a whore every time I walk through the front door,” I choked out, my emotions spilling over.
Guilt for upsetting my mother was churning inside of me, mixing with a lifetime’s worth of resentment, fear, and anger.
“Because that’s what he calls me, Mam,” I strangled out hoarsely. “According to my father, I’m nothing but a dirty whore.”
“He was worried about you,” she replied. “He didn’t know how you got home last night.”
“He was worried about me so he called me a whore?” I shook my head, appalled. “Because that makes sense.”
“Because you were in that picture—”
“Have you seen the picture?”
“No.”
“Well, if you had, you’d see that I didn’t do anything wrong!” Batting away a traitorous tear, I sniffled and said, “I’ve never even been with a boy, Mam, and you know that. But he gets to call me a whore and you do nothing.”
“I did,” she defended. “I spoke to your father about it, and he’s promised not to do it again.”
“Forget it.” Shoving back my chair, I quickly stood up and moved for the door, unwilling to listen to her explain away my father’s actions. “Just forget it, Mam.”
I’d heard enough of those explanations over the years.
“I need to go,” I added hoarsely. “I don’t want to miss my bus again and cause any more problems.”
“Stop,” she warned, following after me. “I haven’t finished.”
“Yeah, well, I have,” I choked out, shrugging off the hand she placed on my shoulder. It was a gentle touch but it hurt worse than any slap he could deliver.
Ignoring my mother’s protests, I stalked out of the kitchen.
