My mother rang my phone at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning.
“Have you gotten over your ridiculous little tantrum yet?” she demanded.
“It wasn’t a tantrum, Mom,” I answered calmly.
“Come back home today, bring milk and bread on your way, apologize to me, and maybe I’ll consider letting you back inside,” she declared.
I watched Gemma happily playing on the floor with a cardboard box. “I’m not coming back,” I replied firmly.
A heavy silence lingered on the line before Brenda changed her approach. “You have a young child to care for, and you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” she warned. “I can easily report that she is living in unsafe conditions since I know people at the clinic.”
“Do whatever you think is necessary,” I told her without flinching.
“Are you honestly challenging me right now?” she sneered.
“No, I’m simply ending this conversation,” I said, hitting the end call button.
Half an hour later, three urgent text messages from my sister flooded my screen.
