The silence didn't last long.
I was still trying to wrap my mind around the whirlwind of everything—Carl's tenderness, Jake's strange expression, the doctor's check-up—when I heard the sharp click of heels.
She was back.
Anne.
She walked in like a storm with lipstick. Her hands were stiff at her sides, her posture rigid, her face stretched tight with a fury she hadn't yet named out loud. And I knew—she wasn't satisfied with the passive-aggressive exchange earlier. She wanted more. She wanted blood.
"I didn't know you were this strong," she said in that icy tone that made even the walls of the house seem to tense.
I sat up slowly, careful of the pulsing throb in my head. "I just had to defend myself."
Her eyes narrowed like knives. "You're a bïtch," she said.
I blinked.
Did I hear her right?
"Ma?"
"I said—you're a bïtch!" she snapped again, louder this time, like she was spitting the word out with venom.
