Chapter 8: The Shop’s Destruction

Mother took me to West Avenue, renting a shop to settle temporarily.

It was little more than a converted garage, with peeling paint and a leaky roof. But it was ours—for now.

It was remote, with few customers. We barely made enough each day.

Some days, we sold nothing but a handful of rolls and a cup of soup. I’d count the change in my palm, doing the math in my head, trying to keep my worries hidden.

I went to the nearby woods to pick herbs, wanting to help my mother with her injuries.

I searched the underbrush for yarrow and plantain, hoping the old remedies might ease her pain. My hands came back scratched, but I didn’t care.

Mother kissed my forehead, but tossed the herbs into the fireplace: “You can’t use them.”

Her tone was gentle, but firm. “Too risky,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Best to trust what we know.”

I understood what she meant, but still couldn’t stop my eyes from turning red.

It stung, knowing I couldn’t help her—not really. But I blinked back the tears, refusing to let them fall.

My father cherished my mother most. If she scraped her skin, he’d make a fuss.

He’d wrap her ankle in ice, kiss her temple, and scold her for being careless. Now, the only comfort left was in memories.

Seeing my mother burned like this, he would have been heartbroken.

I imagined his voice, rough but loving, echoing in the tiny shop: "You gotta take care of her, Lila. Promise me."

But my mother looked at her injured leg and said softly, “This probably isn’t even a ten-thousandth of what he suffered back then.”

She studied her scars, lips pressed into a thin line. I could see the resolve hardening in her eyes.

Before she finished speaking, there came the sound of pots and bowls crashing from the front room.

The noise was thunderous, jarring me from my thoughts. I bolted upright, heart pounding.

I ran out and saw Madison.

She stood in the wreckage of our tiny kitchen, surrounded by a dozen women—maids, hangers-on, and older ladies with cruel faces. Their laughter was sharp, cruel.

She had brought a dozen maids and older women, who overturned the tables and chairs we had worked so hard to buy, and smashed the kitchenware all over the floor.

The shop was chaos—glass shards on the linoleum, flour dust in the air. My mother’s prized pot, a wedding gift, lay dented and useless.

“What are you doing! What are you doing!”

My voice broke as I tried to push them back, fists swinging wildly. Someone grabbed my braid and yanked hard.

I rushed up to stop them, but couldn’t do a thing.

My arms felt useless, too small to fight off grown women. One of them shoved me, and I landed hard on my hip.

Madison popped sunflower seeds, spitting the shells on our clean floor as she sneered: “Where is that tramp trying to seduce the governor?”

Her voice was lazy, almost bored, but her eyes were bright with malice.

My mother was dragged out from the backyard.

Her steps were slow, each movement pained. The bandages on her legs were stained through.

Her wounds hadn’t healed, she could barely walk, her scalded legs dragging on the rough ground, her skirt soon stained red.

The sight made my stomach twist. I tried to run to her, but two women blocked my path.

Madison had her thrown to the ground, then walked up, pinched my mother’s face with sharp nails, and spat sunflower seed shells onto her:

The gesture was obscene, more humiliating than any slap. My mother kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to flinch.

“Tramp, you think I can’t see you, using your looks to act pitiful in front of the governor?”

Her words echoed in the tiny space, bouncing off the broken dishes and battered walls.

“If I don’t teach you a lesson today, you’ll never give up on climbing into his bed.”

Her tone was icy, cruel—her anger barely held in check.

Two older women pinned my mother on either side, and Madison pulled out a gold hairpin, about to slash my mother’s face.

The gold hairpin glinted in her hand, catching the overhead light like a warning.

The room shrank, the only sound my own panicked breathing. I lunged forward, desperate to shield her.

“No!”

I rushed up to shield my mother, crying out with all my strength:

The words tore from my throat, raw and pleading.

“Ma’am, I beg you, my big sister has never done anything wrong. If you want to hurt someone, hurt me—just don’t hurt my big sister…”

I knelt in front of my mother, arms spread. I didn’t care what happened to me—anything to keep her safe.

Madison was furious, and the gold hairpin was about to stab me.

Her face twisted with rage. The hairpin flashed in the sunlight as she raised it high.

A plate suddenly flew over, striking the hairpin.

The sound of shattering porcelain rang through the room—a sharp, decisive interruption.

The plate shattered, and the hairpin flew from Madison’s hand. She clutched her wrist and cried out softly.

Her hand bled, red drops splattering onto the ruined floor. She stared, dumbfounded, at the man who had thrown it.

I was held tightly in my mother’s arms. When I looked up again, I saw a tall figure standing at the door.

His silhouette filled the doorway, the late afternoon sun casting his features in shadow. Even the bravest of Madison’s entourage stepped back.

It was Andrew.

In the dim light, his face was ashen.

The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, his jaw set tight. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t need to.