Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t a decision; it was a biological imperative.

I grabbed the pot of soup—boiling hot, heavy with carrots and potatoes—and hurled it into the sink. The crash was deafening. Steam billowed up like a mushroom cloud. Then I grabbed the frying pan. Clang. The ceramic plates. Crash. The expensive wine glasses. Shatter.

I dismantled the kitchen with the efficiency of a demolition crew.

Robert finally ran in, freezing in the doorway. His face went pale as he took in the carnage—the overturned pots, the shards of porcelain, the blood on my face.

“Mom, what did you do?” he whispered. He didn’t look at my wound. He looked at the floor.

Dawn stepped out from behind him, her face twisted in a rictus of fury. “She’s crazy! Robert, look at this! She’s demented. Call the police. Get her out of here!”

“Mom… why?” Robert asked, looking at me with disappointment, as if I were a naughty child.

“She hit me, Robert,” I said, my voice hoarse, foreign to my own ears. “Your wife hit me with a ladle. And you turned up the TV.”