The mother screamed into the room, overwhelmed in her own pain, spewing it onto her little children who had no clue. They almost became used to it, but still jumped when she screamed. Nothing they did was “right,” not the way they shut their lips, swallowed, walked. Everything about them was wrong, yet they never knew until her voice rose. She was unaware of her mother’s pain. Generational pain fell at younger ages until a little boy of two knew his existance had ruined his mother’s life. He grew up anxious of any little thing that might set her off.
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