Fourteen Stirring Mother

Home breathes, love pours comfort into cups of fine gleaming china. Catch the scent, dear woman. Steam rises in clouds of humidity, obscuring the impenetrable essence of life. Smell the coffee, tiresome bitch.

Mother smiles, watching her men at the kitchen table. Father and son laugh and drink to the joys of life and the trials of marriage. The aroma of bread baking in the oven turns her attention to the clock. Father senses her concentration.

“Where is the little shit now?” asks father.

“He should be here soon,” replies mother.

Man opens the front door as though on cue. The cat yowls as man trips over it.

Brother stands, knocking over his chair. He charges out of the kitchen, mother in his wake.

“I’mm sorry, mmother,” slurs man.

“He’s fucked up on drugs!” brother jeers.

Mother extends a hand to help man rise to his feet. Brother leers and kicks man’s unsteady legs from beneath him. Man slips back to the floor.

Father staggers from the kitchen to assist and mother stands back. Hands at her face she incredulously attends the thrashing of her youngest child. She jumps as the bell in the kitchen signals the readiness of the bread.

Emancipated, mother concerns herself with the rising of the bread and her concern over the immeasurable appetite of the three men near the front door.

For part fifteen, click here.

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