The first truly rebellious act of my life was to marry a man who couldn’t speak, move, or betray me.
My best friend laughed in disbelief. “Finally! We’ll come pick you up next month. But... are you really ready to leave your husband? Your son?”
I smiled bitterly, tears trailing down my cheeks.
What husband? What son?
The image of them smiling together at that award ceremony still haunted me.
“Aunt Loren, can you be my mom?”
“I don’t want her anymore. She looks like one of those aunts who sells vegetables. I was humiliated at school last time because of her!”
“Loren is graceful, elegant, well-spoken…how could your mother compare?”
I realized I had walked in at the wrong time. I was the uninvited guest at their happy celebration. The outsider who didn’t belong.
I looked down at my hands—scarred and calloused from years of care, cleaning, cooking, and self-sacrifice.
Looking at my son, who I had raised for seven years, I finally lost control.
“Arthur, choose. Me, or her.”
His eyes flashed with fury. “How dare you insult her? You were late. It was Loren who helped me rise. Don’t you dare bully her!”
Abraham’s small face twisted in anger, and he pushed me with all his strength.