My parents forced me to cook and clean all weekend for my sister’s party with 50 guests.

Carter had come: the wounded martyr, the furious commander, or the sweet public mother who only appeared when witnesses were nearby.

It was the martyr.

Her eyes were swollen. She wore the cream sweater she usually saved for church.

“Emily,” she said, voice trembling. “May I come in?”

“No.”

Her expression cracked. “You’re really going to treat me like this?continue reading …