“No,” I clarify. “It’s mine. You don’t get to control my life anymore, Mom. I’m not your doll or your plaything.” “Do not disrespect me.” Her fists are clenched at the sides of her house dress—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her so angry. “You’re supposed to be mourning the death of the man who was to be your future husband! Not gallivanting around with trash, walking into this house in his clothes like some whore.”  The word feels like a slap in the face, and my own anger burns bright. ”