“I came home three hours early and found my seven-month-pregnant wife on the floor, bleeding, while my mother held her by the hair. Then I saw the note on Savannah’s phone.” / Chapter 3 / 20

Chapter 3 - The Myth of OwnershipBernice was sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa in the living room, dabbing at the corners of her dry eyes with a paper tissue.

"Son, you have to understand," she began immediately, her tone shifting into an aggrieved, theatrical sob. "I left my home in Sacramento three years ago to come live here and help you two get settled. That woman has never appreciated a single sacrifice I’ve made! Today she disrespected me... she refused to eat the lunch I spent two hours preparing for her! I only pushed her a little, Christopher. She’s making a scene!"

I stood near the dining table, staring at her as if looking at a stranger.

"You hit her because she didn’t want to eat?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

Bernice opened her mouth to speak, but the cold deadness in my eyes made her freeze.

Without another word, I walked down the hall to the guest room—the room my mother had occupied for thirty-six months under the guise of "helping us manage the household."

I unlatched the closet door, grabbed her large red hard-shell suitcase, and laid it flat on the bed.

"Christopher! What on earth are you doing?!" Bernice shrieked, hurrying into the room behind me.

I pulled open the dresser drawers, grabbing armfuls of her sweaters, blouses, and slacks, and dumping them into the open suitcase.

"Are you out of your mind?!" she screamed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Are you kicking your own mother out?! Out of my own son's house?!"

I stopped. I turned my head slowly to look at her for the first time since entering the apartment.

"This apartment cost 8.5 million dollars," I said, every word measured and icy. "Savannah put down 5.3 million in cash from the trust her late father left her before we got married. We are still paying off the remaining mortgage together from our joint earnings."

Bernice’s mouth snapped shut. Her pale cheeks drained of color completely.

"So no, Mom," I continued, zipping the heavy red suitcase shut with a sharp screech. "This is not your son’s house. More than anyone else’s, it belongs to the woman you just threw onto the floor."

I dragged the heavy suitcase out into the hallway and stood by the front entrance. I held the heavy wooden front door wide open.

"You’re not sleeping here tonight. Not tonight, and not ever again."

Bernice stood in the hallway, realization settling in that her theatrical performance had failed. Her expression hardened back into the cruel, bitter scowl I had seen when I first walked through the door.

"She’s bewitched you!" Bernice spat, her voice laced with poison as she grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "That quiet little rat has turned you against your own blood! You will regret this, Christopher! You mark my words, this isn't over!"