The floor was still smeared with soup when she finally gave up. “The mop’s not working properly.” “It’s not the mop’s fault. Trust me.” “I wasn’t raised to clean floors,” she snapped, wayward strands of hair clinging to her cheeks and forehead. “No, you were raised to warm a man’s bed and spread your legs for him.” Her eyes widened, anger twisting her perfect features. “I was raised to take care of a family, to be a good mother and wife.” “You can’t cook, can’t clean, and probably have never changed a diaper in your life. Being a good mother doesn’t seem to be in your future.”
