“You useless child!” she shouted, her voice trembling. “Who told you to get divorced? Where are you even living now? Who’s going to take care of you?”
Then came the command—sharp and humiliating.
“Go and apologize to your husband right now! Beg him to take you back! My reputation is ruined because of you! Do you ever stop causing me trouble?”
I stared at her in a daze.
This was the woman I had loved for so long.
She had once been gentle, or at least pretended to be. She had given me clothes to wear, food to eat, and books to read—the bare minimum, yes.
But because of those small things, I tried so hard to be a responsible daughter.
Yet to her, my dignity and my happiness—none of it mattered as much as her reputation.
“It was he who cheated,” I said quietly. “Not me.”
The next second, her hand came down hard across my cheek, the sound echoing. Her furious face loomed before me, every wrinkle twisted in rage.
“So what if he cheated?” she shouted. “It’s not the end of the world! If he cheated, that just means he’s capable!”
Her words struck me harder than her slap ever could.