blouse.
Adela and Bertha marched into the room, draped in a sickening pantomime of grief. My mother pressed a crumpled tissue to her dry eyes, heaving fake, shuddering breaths. Bertha clamped a hand over her mouth, whispering, “Oh, poor baby,” as if she hadn’t declared his suffering justified less than twelve hours prior.
I stood up, my fists clenched continue reading …
