My Funeral, His Destruction Stage

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s mask. He watched the movers carry the last boxes from my old apartment-our old apartment-down the hall and

out, his voice low and tight. "Moving just one

ize every surface, as if my presence had contaminated it. I stood in the doorway of my new, smal

o my side. She was still recovering from the flu, still fra

ment, clutching a brand-new, designer doll. She looked at

r, Father, and Marcus-stepped out, their faces wreathed in smiles. They didn' t even gla

s child with a warmth she rarely showed Daisy. "Ho

e, she' s doing wonderfully! Look at her, so bright, so charming." They fawned ove

me. Finally, my mother turned, her gaze sweeping over the sce

re here, perhaps you could make us all some tea.

hey truly saw me as nothing more than a glorified servant. An

erously soft. "Because if I recall correctly, Carter was just playing chef fo

. My mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Adelle! How can you speak to your b

self. This is my apartment now. My space. And I will not be serving anyone in it. N

s terrifying her. My heart twisted in agony. I had tried to fight their battles, but all I was doing was hurting my child. T

ng my mother' s arm. "Please, Mrs. Moon, let' s not make a scene. Adelle is

nt, clear. I couldn't

my arms. My voice brooked no argument. I didn' t care wha

ll, firm statement. I leaned against the closed door, my strength compl

here," she cried, her voi

floor below him wasn't an act of defiance; it was an act of self-torture. And worse, it was a torture I was inflicti