Feeling safe in her locked bathroom, she stood there in front of the mirror with swollen eyes. With a warm washrag, she slowly and meticulously wiped the tear-streaked mascara left on her face.
Barely audible, she forced the words out of her mouth, “I can’t take it anymore God.” With uncontrollable sobs, she dropped to the cold tile floor.
In a curled fetal position for what seemed like hours, she swirled her finger in the wet puddle of tears left on the floor.
Like ringing in the ears, she could hear so clearly her teen son repeating to her, “I hate you. I don’t want you in my life.” Continue reading