I stared at the empty pot. I didn't argue. I didn't scream.
That night, I called a divorce lawyer and booked a moving company.
If my father couldn't so much as use a single plate in this house,
then this apartment I'd bought outright before the marriage, paid for in full with my own money,
they could forget about living in it, too.
——
When I heard the commotion and rushed to the kitchen, the smell of braised pork still hung in the air.
But.
The meat, still steaming, was tangled with shards of porcelain on the floor, reduced to a ruined heap.
And my father, who had never been anything but smiles in front of me,
stood white as a sheet, ignoring the blood dripping from his finger, apologizing to my mother-in-law over and over again.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I saw the plate sitting out and assumed it was for everyday use. I had no idea it was something precious to you..."
In thirty years, I had never once seen him look so small.
But his bowed head didn't earn him Georgette James's forgiveness.
If anything, it made her feel she could push harder.
Her voice climbed another octave.
"Who do you think you are? Who do you think you ARE?"
Her finger jabbed so close it nearly touched my father's nose.