I was making soup when my daughter-in-law struck my head with a ladle.
“Who cooks like that, you incompetent woman?” shouted Dawn, as I felt the hot metal searing against my temple. My son, Robert, sitting in the living room, simply turned up the volume on the television, as if he hadn’t heard, as if it didn’t matter.
Five minutes later, a deafening crash came from the kitchen. Pots, dishes, my body hitting the floor. Robert ran over and froze in the doorway. “Mom, what did you do?” he whispered, looking at me sprawled among the wreckage of my own dignity.
