I stumbled toward the sink, reaching for the roll of paper towels with shaking hands. My mother moved with surprising speed, yanking the roll away.
“That’s for the guests,” she said flatly. She kicked a rag from under the sink toward my feet. “Use that.”
I picked it up. It smelled of mildew and old bacon grease, but I pressed it against my bleeding mouth anyway. The humiliation was clawing at my chest, far sharper than the physical pain.
“You think I’m joking?” Dad stepped into my shadow again. “I’ll call Mr. Henderson right now. One phone call, and you’re unemployable.”
I looked at him through a blur of tears. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to shatter the expensive vase on the mantelpiece that I had paid for. But I knew better. They fed on reactions. They wanted me to break, to beg, to scream so they could call me hysterical.
