The whole dining room fell silent except for the steady loud hum of the old kitchen refrigerator behind the wall.

Vanessa stared at the twelve-year-old, color rising beneath her heavy face powder.

“I was out building a decent life,” Vanessa said, her voice dropping to a sharp, bitter pitch.

“A life where my kids would never have to live like peasants in a faded old house.”

“You bought a fake purse,” Mark said.

Vanessa shot up so fast her chair scraped hard across the hardwood floor, leaving a fresh white scuff in the finish.

She stormed into the living room and grabbed the shiny silver gift bag she had left on the sofa cushion when she arrived.