The Last Mrs. Parrish

by Liv Constantine

She saw the origin of her mother’s cheerless demeanor and poverty of imagination. It was then, at that tender age, that the dream of something different and better was born in Amber.

Today she felt especially comforted by the books that climbed the walls. They were a reminder that any knowledge she desired was hers for the asking.

The next day a gift would arrive. A piece of jewelry, a designer purse, some expensive perfume. And every time I had to wear any of it, I’d be reminded of what I’d endured to receive it.

So she misbehaved sometimes—who wouldn’t with that kind of pressure? But how do you explain to people around you that you’re cutting your child some slack because her father has reduced her to rubble?

I wasn’t going to turn her in. No, she wasn’t going back to Missouri to serve a measly couple of years in prison. She was going to get a life sentence right here in Connecticut.

“You can’t hold a candle to Daphne, you low-class whore. You can read all you want, study all you want, and you’ll never be anything but poor white trash.”

“You’re mine, bitch.”