“You put my mother in a storage room next to the garage,” I said.

“You moved her out of her own home and into a windowless box.

You turned her into a servant in the house I bought her with six years of my life.

You took the money I sent for her care.

You left her scrubbing your floors on her knees until they were ruined.

And this afternoon you looked me in the eye and called her the maid.” My voice stayed level the whole way through, and somehow that made it land harder.

“So do not stand on that porch and say the word family to me.”