Page 18 of Till Death Do Us Part

As they got into the car, she sat down in the passenger seat with a deep sigh and put her seatbelt on while her mother helped the younger ones get into their seats. Then the door opened, and her mother sat in the driver's seat. She looked at Emma, a smile growing on her face. Then she lifted her fist, clenched it, and slammed it into Emma's temple.

Emma's head jerked to the side. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she could taste blood in her mouth. Shocked and confused, Emma looked at her mother, who was staring straight ahead, her grip on the steering wheel so tight that her knuckles were white.

Her mother's eyes flickered to her, and Emma could see a wild look in them, a look that scared her.

"You ruined those pictures, Emma—you and your sisters. You can't even follow simple instructions," her mother spat out. "You embarrassed me in there. You couldn't even make a decent silly face. How dare you embarrass me like that in front of the photographer! You were slouching, your hair was a mess, and your smile was crooked. I can't believe you would ruin our family portraits like that."

Emma could feel the anger boiling inside her, but she knew better than to say anything else. Her mother was not in a rational state of mind, and she didn't want to provoke her any further.

Silent tears streamed down Emma's face as her mother started the car and drove them home. The ride felt like an eternity, the tension in the air so thick that it felt like she would explode. But she didn't dare. The car ride was silent except for the sound of their mother's ragged breaths. Emma's sisters, sitting in the back seat, were too scared to say anything either.

When they finally got home, Emma opened the door and stepped out of the car with her mother close behind. As she walked toward the house, she could feel her mother's eyes drilling holes into the back of her head. She felt so embarrassed about herself and how she had behaved. Why couldn't she be better? Was it really that hard?

Chapter13

Iknew the moment I stepped through the door that something was wrong. The smell of bleach and cleaning solution hit me like a ton of bricks, and I had to fight off a wave of guilt that threatened to pierce my chest. Even before I stepped into the kitchen, I could hear somebody scrubbing something with a furious intensity.

My mom was on her hands and knees, a sponge in one hand and a rag in the other, scrubbing the already spotless kitchen floor with a vigor that betrayed her anxiety. For a moment, I felt like a small child again, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, unsure of how to proceed.

"Hey, Mom," I said, trying to sound casual as I kicked off my shoes.

My mom didn't even look up from her cleaning.

"Mom, it's clean enough now. Would you stop?"

She looked up, then snorted at me. "It's so dirty in this house. How can you let your children grow up in this mess?"

"Well, we are in the middle of renovations, Mom,” I said. "So, it's only natural to have some dust, dirt, and mess."

"And what's going on with Elijah's room? Why doesn't he have a door? Why is he sleeping with the baby? Why doesn't the boy have his own room?"

"We're working on it,” I said.

"You were gone all day, so it doesn't look like you're working on it,” she said.

"Hey, we're on a case, okay? We’ve got jobs to do, too."

I walked to the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. My mom made a noise behind me.

"What?” I asked. “I'm not allowed to have a glass of wine after a long day?"

She looked away. "I guess it's none of my business."

Matt grabbed a beer and then walked to the living room, getting away from us as fast as possible. I couldn't blame him.

I took a sip of the wine, relishing the taste and the way it soothed my nerves. My mom's presence always had a way of making me feel like a teenager again, and I hated it. I wanted to be able to live my own life without her constantly breathing down my neck.

"You know, Mom," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's not easy being a detective. We see some pretty messed up things on a daily basis, and sometimes we need to unwind a little."

"I know that," she said, still scrubbing away at the floor. "But that doesn't mean you have to live in squalor."

I rolled my eyes. "It's not squalor, Mom. It's just a little messy. And we're in the process of renovating, remember?"

"I remember," she said, finally standing up and putting her cleaning supplies away. "I just worry about you. You're my baby, after all. I would never let you grow up in a mess like this. Never."

I sipped my wine, trying to push away the guilt lingering in my chest. I knew my mom meant well, but her constant need to clean and criticize only added to the weight on my shoulders. As I sat on the couch, I couldn't help but feel like a failure as a mother.

Matt sat down next to me, taking a swig of his beer before pulling me into a side hug. I leaned my head on his shoulder, taking comfort in his warmth and presence.

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