“You’re so hateful.” “I learned at your feet.” My mother lunged then, grabbed me by both arms. Then she reached behind me and, with one fingernail, circled the spot on my back that had no scars. “The only place you have left,” she whispered at me. Her breath was cloying and musky, like air coming from a spring well. “Yes.” “Someday I’ll carve my name there.”
