The dining room door was open. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. But something glistened on the parquet floor. My heart stopped when I saw it.
Shards of crystal littered the floor like shooting stars. My mother’s precious glassware lay in ruins. Each piece told a story of violence, hatred, and deliberate destruction.
Sandra was there, a broom in her hand. Her face showed neither shame nor regret. Only satisfaction.
“Oh Jen!” she exclaimed during a theater performance. “I’m so clumsy. I turned the whole closet upside down looking for something.”
I stood there, numb, trying to comprehend the extent of his cruelty.
