I thought I had been clear, but it was like she didn't hear a word I said. She snapped at me again, then suddenly softened her tone, as if remembering something.
"Julian, I know it's hard to accept your mother's death right now. That's understandable. But think rationally. She was old, contributed nothing to the family, and needed us to support her. She's been a burden for years. If she were still alive, do you really think she could earn even five thousand, let alone fifty?"
"We have to be realistic," Abigail said coldly. "If you think fifty thousand is too little, then name your price."
At that instant, something in me snapped—I finally understood.
I lifted my head, my voice edged with bitter irony.
"So, once someone grows old and stops earning money, they're a burden? That makes it acceptable for people to slander them, to put a price tag on their life and buy it off with fifty thousand?"
I looked straight into her eyes.
"Abigail, is that what you really think of your own mother?"
"Shut up."
Like a firecracker set alight, she leapt to her feet and flung the drink in my face.