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The night my daughter pushed my suitcase onto the sidewalk, I thought the rain was going to break me. It was pouring down, soaking my hair, my clothes, my bones. But it wasn't the storm that hurt the most.
Those were his words.
"You'll never see a cent of my money, you old witch."
My mascara was running down my cheeks, but I didn't wipe it away. I stood there, water dripping onto my shoes, staring at the girl I'd once carried in my arms. She'd just won ten million dollars in the national lottery. And now she was looking at me like I was an unwanted guest.
Her new boyfriend stood behind her, arms crossed, barely older than her eldest son. The house still smelled of paint, the "Sold" sign was still fresh in the yard. When she tossed my suitcase at me, it split open in her immaculate entryway. My folded clothes spilled like trash across her marble floor. My toothbrush rolled into the gutter, abandoned.
She didn't flinch. She didn't blink. She didn't care.
"You're a parasite," she spat, her gaze cold. "I worked for this. I won't support you."
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