“You clumsy, ungrateful brat,” she hissed, her voice low and poisonous—the kind that meant real danger.
I was fourteen. Barely a hundred pounds. I didn’t stand a chance against her.
She jerked me backward. My bare feet slipped on the soapy kitchen floor, my knees slamming hard against the linoleum. I cried out, grabbing at her wrist, trying to loosen her grip.
“Brenda, please! I’m sorry! It was an accident!”
She didn’t care. She never did.
This wasn’t about a broken plate.
It was about ownership.
The shattered porcelain scattered across the kitchen floor had belonged to my mother—my real mom. A delicate antique plate with blue willow patterns along the edge. One of the last pieces left from a set she’d bought before breast cancer took her away five years ago.
Brenda hated everything my mom left behind.
The photos in Dad’s office.
The memories.
The fact that I had my mother’s eyes.
But most of all—
She hated me.
With one final shove, she threw me out the front door.
I stumbled over the doormat, my knees scraping against the freezing concrete of the porch. Before I could even catch my breath—
Click.
The door locked behind me.