My mother seemed satisfied... momentarily, at least as she stared at me to ensure that I actually said those words with my own mouth. 

Without another word, she spun toward the kitchen, muttering things to herself while I sat stiffly in the faded armchair, holding my sore cheek where she’d slapped me earlier. 

Minutes later, she appeared again, holding a cracked plate with steaming food. She placed it on the small coffee table between us. 

It was a simple meal. Rice, beans, ...