6
s
It was a hard slap. Ethan’s cheek flushed crimson, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. He stared at me, stunned. Fifteen years, and I’d never laid a hand on him. Now, I wanted to hit him again.
Mark’s jaw dropped. “Lily! Are you crazy? You hit our son?”
“He’s a spoiled brat who prefers his father’s mistress to his own mother. He deserves it.” I
<
smoothed my hair, tightening the bun.
Ethan’s lips trembled. He backed away slowly.
“Amelia is not a mistress! She and Dad knew
each other before you…”
“Oh, shut up, mistress. Go make your man
some breakfast. Being a trophy wife is hard
work.” I turned to Ethan. “And you, get out.
You have no right to yell at me. Show some
respect.
“”
Ethan choked on his words, then stormed out,
slamming the door. “Fine! We’re done! I don’t
need a crazy, violent mother!”
Good riddance. I didn’t care. They both
L
disgusted me. I couldn’t stand to be near
them.
I played the piano for a while, rediscovering a
lost part of myself. Lily Morris, you’re back.
First order of business: leave this house. I
packed a bag, ignoring Mark’s theatrical
pronouncements of indifference relayed by
the housekeeper, Mrs. Davis. I turned back,
giving him a small smile. You’re right, Mark. It
doesn’t concern you at all. Goodbye.
