That night, Clement's mother, Lauren Lawrence, descended on my home with over a dozen relatives in tow, barging through the front door like a conquering army.
Lauren's voice carried through the entire house, loud and shrill, as if she already owned the place. "Years I've spent smiling at that woman's face. Years. Well, the suffering's finally over."
The crowd fawned and congratulated one another for a while before Lauren's voice cut through again. "Come on. Let's go upstairs and get one last look at the little tramp!"
They surged up the staircase and crammed into my bedroom.
I sat propped against the headboard, expression blank, watching them gawk at me like visitors at a zoo, amusement and contempt plastered across every face.
Among them were people I had helped. One had been wrongfully fired, and I was the one who found them a new job. Another's child couldn't get into school, and I was the one who secured the enrollment spot. Yet another had lost over a million dollars in a failed business, and it was my emergency fund that pulled them out of the hole.
Clement had no conscience. Fine. But neither did a single one of them.