I think the last time I talked to my mother was when I wanted to move out. She couldn’t understand why I chose to live in a one-bedroom apartment instead of the mansion my father provided. I wanted to tell her it was because I’d always be controlled if I stayed there, but our conversation ended with words like b***h and stupid hag destined to die waiting for a married man to love her.
Twenty-one wasn’t exactly my year of being polite, but she was my mother—she had to understand I didn’t mean what I said. That my insults had a greater meaning. Then again, I’d never cussed at her before that day.
I could feel the old staff staring at me with wide eyes as I walked down the hall, my cheeks burning. Stupid Ashton, for making me come back here after I’d sworn on my father’s life that I wouldn’
