Mark’s voice cuts through the quiet like a knife, the kind that leaves clean lines but deep wounds.
“Look at this,” he jeers, phone aimed at me like a weapon.
I’m on the floor, fumbling for a wrench that slipped from my grasp, feeling the weight of eyes on me.
“My ‘charity case’ daughter, scrambling on the floor like a rat for a penny,” he continues, his words sharp, deliberate.
My heart thuds, each beat echoing the humiliation that colors my cheeks.
The store, usually filled with the low hum of browsing customers, is now a stage for this cruel act.
A few patrons glance over, their faces a mix of awkwardness and avoidance.
I can feel the heat rising in my face, a flush of shame that mixes with anger.
It’s not just the words; it’s the fact that this isn’t new. His disdain, usually silent and simmering, has boiled over publicly.
I stand, wrench in hand, the cold metal a small comfort against the sting of his laughter.
