. . . He lifted his hand and struck her. Mom’s voice crackled as she shouted, “Man, that’s the last time you’ll put ya hands on me. I’ve had it! All these years, I’ve been tippy-toeing and keeping the blinders on. Naw, they come off today! You bring those women into our home and have intimate relationships with ’em! Then when I walk in on ya, you shout out for me to get out of the room? Ya strike out and fight when the mood hits ya. The things you’ve done to this family. It’s a wonder the kids ain’t affected. Man, may God have mercy on your soul!”
After lashing out, Mom turned and grabbed a broom that stood against the furnace door. But as she raised it over her head, the broom handle hit the ceiling light. The glass broke and shattered into tiny pieces all over Dad. He jumped back and yelled in his deep, harsh tone, “Woman, what type of God
do you serve?”
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