"I am your *mother*!" My voice shook the walls. "If I don't control you, who will? And I told you not to throw food!"
My son jumped up, stomping his feet in a rage that mirrored his father's.
"Who cares if you're my mom? I don't *want* you! Why don't you just go die?"
The world stopped.
I froze, the air punched out of my lungs. Those words—from the child I had sacrificed my life for. The treasure I had held in my palm.
He started crying. A loud, retching sob. Acting as if *he* were the victim.
My husband finally looked up, frowning.
"It's just some crumbs. He stayed up a little late. Do you have to scream like a banshee?"
My face drained of blood. My hands trembled.
"Did you hear what he just said to me?"
He waved a hand dismissively, his eyes drifting back to his screen.
"He's just a child. You're taking an angry kid's words seriously? How old is he, and how old are you? Stop being so dramatic."
"Look at yourself. What is the difference between you and a lunatic?"
Cole's voice could have flash-frozen steel. No comfort. No concern. Just undisguised disgust dripping from every syllable.