Chapter 5 - Stripping the Mask
Bernice was sitting upright on the velvet sofa, clutching a lace handkerchief she had conjured from her sleeve. The moment Christopher stepped into the room, she manufactured a fresh cascade of tears, dabbing at eyes that remained suspiciously dry beneath her spectacles.
“Son, I am so glad you came out,” Bernice began, her voice dripping with practiced self-pity. “I left my home in Sacramento to help you both, and this is how I’m repaid. That woman has never appreciated anything I’ve done. Today she disrespected me because she refused to eat what I cooked for lunch. She talked back to me with such venom! I only pushed her a little, Christopher. She provoked me—”
“You hit her,” Christopher interrupted. His voice was not loud. It was terrifyingly quiet, flat, and devoid of any human warmth.
Bernice blinked, her self-righteous performance faltering for a fraction of a second. “I… she was disrespectful! As the mother of this house, I—”
“You hit my pregnant wife because she didn't want to eat your food?” Christopher stepped closer, his shadow falling over her like an avalanche.
Bernice fell silent, her lips parting as she tried to recalibrate her defense. “Christopher, you don’t understand how difficult it is living with her. She thinks she owns the place just because—well, because she’s always acting superior—”
Without another word, Christopher turned away from her and walked down the long, marbled hallway toward the guest bedroom—the room Bernice had occupied for the past three years.
He threw the door open, strode straight to the large mahogany wardrobe, and yanked it open. Inside hung dozens of Bernice’s conservative blouses, woolen cardigans, and trousers.
From the floor of the closet, he dragged out her heavy, red hardshell suitcase, slamming it down onto the queen-sized bed with a resounding thud.
Bernice appeared in the doorway moments later, her face flushing with genuine panic as she watched him pull her red wool coat off its hanger and toss it haphazardly into the open luggage.
“Christopher! What on earth are you doing? Have you lost your mind?!” she shrieked, rushing forward to grab his arm.
Christopher wrenched his arm away with such sudden violence that Bernice stumbled back against the doorframe, gasping in shock. He didn't look at her as he swept an entire shelf of folded sweaters into the suitcase, compressing them with the heel of his hand.
“Are you kicking me out of my own son’s house?!” Bernice’s voice rose to a frantic, piercing pitch, echoing off the high ceilings. “You’re throwing your own mother out onto the street for a manipulative gold-digger?! After everything I sacrificed for you?!”
Christopher stopped. He slowly straightened up from the bed, turning his head to look at his mother for the very first time with eyes that looked like shattered glass.
“This apartment,” Christopher said, every word dropping like a lead weight into the silence of the room, “cost eight point five million dollars.”
Bernice stopped shouting, her mouth hanging open.
“Savannah put in five point three million dollars from the personal wealth she accumulated before we were ever married,” Christopher continued, his voice steady, carrying a lethal precision. “We are still paying off the remaining mortgage every single month with joint funds, but the primary equity—the roof over our heads—belongs to her.”
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Bernice went completely pale. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin a sickly, mottled gray. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish pulled from water.
“So no, Mom,” Christopher whispered, stepping right up to her until she was forced to lean back against the doorframe. “This isn't your son’s house. More than anyone else’s on this earth, it belongs to the woman you just threw onto the floor.”
