Every attempt I made to discuss it with my mom ended in silence or a change of subject.
She seemed tired, worn down by the weight of it all.
Still, she refused to challenge him, always minimizing the friction when I brought it up.
A family meeting loomed on the horizon, a weekend gathering meant to discuss updates to the house and finances.
I dreaded it, knowing the tension would be palpable, the spotlight uncomfortable.
I felt caught in a cycle, unsure whether to step up or step back.
The incident I witnessed was more than a simple act of cleaning.
It was a symptom of something bigger, a quiet, escalating conflict that hung over us all.
Our home, once a place of comfort, now felt like a battleground of unspoken tensions.
My mom, though kind and resilient, seemed reluctant to push back.
