“You think you get to keep your paycheck when your sister needs it?” he growled. The vibration of his voice seemed to rattle the very teeth remaining in my head.

My knees buckled, instinct taking over as my hand flew to my mouth. When I pulled it away, my fingers were slick with bright red blood. I ran my tongue over my gum line and felt the jagged void instantly. My front tooth was gone. Severed at the root.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to explain that I had already paid half her rent last month. I wanted to list the grocery bills, the phone coverage, the endless “loans” that were never repaid. But before I could form a syllable, my mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and gleeful, like a scalpel through silk.

“Parasites should learn to obey,” she said.

I looked up. She was standing by the counter, smiling. It wasn’t a warm smile; it was the satisfied smirk of someone who had just won a scratch-off lottery ticket. Her eyes scanned me up and down, lingering on the blood dripping onto her beige carpet, viewing me not as her injured daughter, but as filth that would require stain remover.