Chapter 4 - The Stiletto
The demand was completely absurd. Every chair at the round table offered the exact same view of the room.
But logic had never played any role when it came to my mother's demands. Arguing with her had never once ended well for me, and I felt the old, deeply ingrained instinct to simply submit and keep the peace bubbling up in my throat.
However, my hands instinctively tightened around my swollen belly.
"Mom, I am eight months pregnant,"
I whispered, hoping the quiet vulnerability in my voice would reach whatever maternal instinct she possessed.
"Getting up and down right now is incredibly painful for my pelvis."
Her voice instantly dropped to a venomous, terrifying hiss, far more threatening than any loud scream could ever be.
"Get out of the chair right now. Your sister needs to sit."
Under the table, Monica’s hand gently squeezed my knee, a silent, desperate offering of support. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to maintain my composure.
"Olivia is only two months along,"
I reasoned, choosing my words with extreme caution.
"I am thirty-two weeks. I need to stay seated because—"
My sentence was violently cut off.
A sudden, excruciating bolt of agony shot through the top of my foot. I gasped loudly, my eyes flying open. I looked down under the edge of the tablecloth.
My mother had driven the sharp, spiked heel of her stiletto directly down onto the delicate bones of my foot, intentionally grinding her weight into the shoe.
Because the long ivory tablecloth obscured her legs from the rest of the room, no one else saw the attack. But the blinding pain radiated all the way up my calf.
She leaned down closer to my face, maintaining a stiff, fake smile for anyone who might be watching from the dance floor.
May you like
"I will not tell you again,"
She spat, her lips barely moving.
