I’m not surprised it should end here.
This has always been the hub of our home. Evening meals as a family, the kids covering the table with their homework.
Then, when they left home, it became our battleground . You occupying one end of the kitchen table me the other. Taking turns to throw barbed comments and hateful accusations across no-man’s land.
I’m not sure what was different about today. It might have been something you said but I can’t think what. I simply remember screaming, lashing out, hitting you again and again with that old iron.
So utterly satisfying.
100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.