“Oh, please,” Lorraine scoffed, arms crossed. “Every mother deals with a crying baby. It’s no excuse to let this house turn into a pigsty. The laundry’s overflowing and the counters are sticky.”

“Travis told me not to worry about the chores,” Brooke pleaded, tears welling. “The doctor said—”

“The doctor doesn’t have to live in this filth!” Lorraine snapped, stepping closer. “My son is out there working himself to the bone for you, and you can’t run a load of towels. You’re taking advantage of his kindness. You’re playing the victim.”

I sat in my car, my heart slamming against my ribs.

My mother — who raised me, who preached kindness and family values at her charity luncheons — stood over my bleeding wife and tore her apart.

And the worst was still coming.