“Are you out of your mind?” she screamed. “You’re really divorcing a man like Alric? He’s a saint! I swear to God I’ll beat some sense into you!”
“It’s just a coffee! Just a damn cup of coffee! You want to divorce him over that?”
“He’s the one who makes the money, supports this whole family, takes care of your father and me! How can you be so ungrateful?”
My father came out right behind her, red-faced and fuming.
“Even if he bought that woman a house, a coffee—what’s it got to do with you? If you can’t hold on to your man, that’s your failure!”
“You should be grateful he’s still staying with you! You’re lucky to have him!”
Then my seventeen-year-old brother sneered. “Honestly, sis, you’re kind of a frumpy housewife now. If I were Alric, I couldn’t stand you either.”
There I stood, in my apron, the one I wore every day while cooking, cleaning, mothering—and yet my own family, the people I gave everything for, turned on me without hesitation.
They called me a burden. A disappointment. A woman who couldn't keep her man.
My heart went still in my chest.
“Alric called me just now. He's worried about you, asking if you’d come home!” My mother raised her hand again and slapped me one more time.