“You’re so shameless!” She raised her voice. “Other kids’ moms are already home by now. You’re the only one who isn’t!”
Viggo stood up from the couch, his tone displeased.
“Look at yourself,” he said. “You’re a mother. Do you think this is appropriate?”
“Coming home this late every day. What kind of example are you setting for her?”
I stood in the entryway, my hands slowly curling into fists.
I had heard this lecture for seven years.
Whenever I worked late, he’d tell our daughter that women who come home late are restless and improper.
If I woke up late and didn’t make breakfast, he’d say a good mother would never let her child go hungry.
Under this constant emotional pressure, I’d been forced to give up parts of the company, rush home early, juggle being a stay-at-home mom while still trying to build a career.
And yet, nobody ever noticed what I gave. All I got in return was fucking blame!
“There was something going on at the company,” I said, swallowing my emotions out of habit.
“Cruella, go to bed early. You have art class tomorrow.”
The words had barely left my mouth when she suddenly screamed.
“I don’t want to go!”
That brat grabbed a cup from the table and hurled it at me.