Chapter 3 - The Breaking Point
"Nobody is stopping us," I said, my voice steady, though my hands were shaking as I scooped Frederick into my arms.
I pulled Amy up from the plastic stool. She swayed on her feet, dizzy from exhaustion and hunger, but I kept one arm firmly around her waist. We walked out through the back door, past the pantry, and stepped directly into the bright afternoon sunlight of the patio.
The music was thumping. Uncle Carl was holding a beer bottle, laughing loudly at a joke my cousin Mason was telling. My mother sat at the head of the long folding table we’d rented three years ago, flanked by her sisters, looking like a queen presiding over her court.
As soon as she saw us emerging from the kitchen with Amy looking disheveled and me carrying the baby, Teresa’s smile vanished. She slammed her glass down onto the wooden table so hard that iced tea sloshed over the rim.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Teresa barked, standing up. All conversation across the yard died instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes swung toward us. "The party isn't over! I told that lazy wife of yours to finish the dishes before the guests wanted dessert."
"Shut your mouth, Mother," I said.
The words cracked through the warm Tennessee air like a whip. Several relatives gasped. Aunt Betsy dropped her fork onto her plate with a sharp clatter.
Teresa’s face flushed a mottled, angry purple. "Excuse me? How dare you speak to me like that in front of my family? After everything I’ve done for you? After I spent my entire week organizing this celebration for my grandson—using my own time, my own energy, while she sat in the corner like a useless lump—you disrespect me?"
"You didn't throw this party for Frederick," I shouted, stepping forward until I stood at the edge of the patio, shielding Amy and my sick child behind me. "You threw this party to show off. You’ve been bleeding my bank account dry for twelve months, taking three thousand dollars every single month under the guise of helping us, while you treat my wife like a slave in her own home. Look at my son! He has a hundred-and-three-degree fever, and you kept your daughter-in-law scrubbing pans instead of getting him to a doctor!"
"That's a lie!" Teresa shrieked, marching toward us, her manicured finger pointing aggressively at my chest. "That boy is fine! Children get fevers! And as for your money, it’s my money! That house belongs to me! Your name might be on a piece of paper, but I paid the down payment, I manage the taxes, and in the eyes of this family, this property is mine!"
"Get back, Teresa," I warned, turning around to open the rear passenger door of my truck. I strapped my car seat base in swiftly, secured Frederick, and helped Amy into the front passenger seat.
My mother stormed across the driveway, her high heels clicking furiously against the asphalt. She grabbed my arm as I tried to close the door.
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"You are not taking my grandson anywhere!" she screamed, her mask of maternal benevolence completely shredded, revealing the controlling, manipulative tyrant beneath. "Get out of that car, Amy, you ungrateful little parasite! You’ve poisoned my son against me!"
That was when I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.
