“DON’T YOU EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!”
For one brief moment, Vanessa looked genuinely surprised.
Then she laughed.
“Or what? You’re going to tell the dean?”
She stepped toward me again.
I raised my hands defensively, and when she tried to grab me, I pushed her arms away.
Vanessa stumbled backward, lost her balance, and fell onto the tiled floor.
Her friends gasped.
I turned back toward the sink, trying desperately to stop my hands from shaking.
I had defended myself.
But Vanessa’s next words made me realize that the worst part of this nightmare hadn’t even begun.
“You think yesterday was bad?” she hissed. “Wait until you find out what happens to that cleaning lady tonight.” The
continuation read in the comments 👇👇‼️‼️
I froze.
Because the woman she was talking about was my mother.
My mother, Evelyn Parker, was 59 years old.
After my father died, she worked wherever she could find employment. For the past six years, she’d cleaned classrooms and hallways at the same college where I studied nursing.
