Sienna's sallow face turned red, and she shouted in a nasty tone, "Who the hell are you, lady? What business is it of yours how I discipline my daughter!"
My birth mother disdainfully flung away Sienna's fat, sturdy wrist. Just like a scene from a CEO romance novel, she took a silk handkerchief from her luxurious handbag, wiped her hand, and tossed it away.
Her voice was icy cold.
"Oh, are you sure the daughter you're disciplining is your daughter?
"I think your daughter looks a lot like my daughter."
My birth mother stepped gracefully over Sienna and came to my side, helping me up from where I lay sprawled on the sweet potato seedlings.
"Darling," she said, her voice gentle but her gaze firm and unwavering.
"Who do you think is your mother? Me, or this fat woman with the mean face?"
Looking at my birth mother, dressed impeccably and smiling warmly, then down at my own hands, dry, skinny, and dark, a wave of shame washed over me.
I lowered my head, not daring to meet her eyes.
"You're my mom," I whispered, my voice trembling.
My mother smiled, her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, my sweet girl. Mommy's taking you home."