and reheated with flair. His face turned purple with rage. That night, I took Mom out to dinner and reminded her of something she had forgotten—she didn’t need to serve anyone to be worthy of love. She cried in the car, but it was the good kind of cry—the beginning of something stronger. A week later,
we changed the locks. Raymond came home to find his bags packed on the porch. Three months passed in peace. Then one day, Mom called me, amused. “You’ll never guess who begged for a second chance,” she said. “I told him I already had plans—with leftover lasagna and my freedom.”
