Margaret’s voice sounds like poison as it slithers into my ears. Her hand hovers in the air as my designer sunglasses—which have been snapped in two by her—fall onto the table. My hood has been pulled back, my hair now a messy curtain around my face.
I don’t say anything. I just stare at her with contempt. Because what do you even say when one of the persons who contributed to your downfall and supported her son’s selfish behaviors is now standing inches from your face while your son is in the building?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But nothing isn’t good enough for Margaret. She always liked to push and prod to the point where I would snap. I never did, of course. She’s Noah’s mother, and I never wanted to do anything that would upset him.
She slides into the empty chair across from me
