As his mansion came into view, so did more memories surface.
The face he saw in his mind was a child's. Five years old, maybe younger. Bare feet on a cold dirt floor, ribs slightly visible from missed meals, hair long and unkempt because combing it took too much time and patience, neither of which his mother had. A child who only knew two things: silence kept you safe, and questions got you slapped.
"Why are you crying, huh? Huh? You want people to pity you? You want people to know what a bad mother I am?!
He remembered flinching from her voice, loud and sharp like broken glass. He'd stop crying. Always.
She'd hit him with words more than fists, but when the words didn't land right, when her anger boiled past the edge, she didn't hesitate to throw whatever she was holding, a slipper, a bottle, even once a hot spoon.
And still, he'd told himself: "She's my mom. She loves me. That's why I'm here with her, not in some orphanage. That's love."
God, what a lie.
