Ruth
by R. E. Bounds
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
BDSM Story: When Laura returns home to care for her aging mother, she uncovers a horrifying truth about the former psychiatric hospital where her mother once worked—and the girl named Candy who never fully escaped its walls. As a new investigation threatens to bring long-buried records to light, Laura realizes her mother’s fading memories are both a blessing and a curse. A story best experienced following The Clerk - Chapter 26: Is That…A Yes.
Tags: Romantic Lesbian Fiction True Story BDSM Slow AI Generated
“Yeah,” I called up. “I’m down here, Mom! No need to come down—I’ll be up in just a minute.”
I hurried to slide the bookcase into place. I knew she’d come down anyway. You couldn’t tell her not to do something—stubborn didn’t begin to cover it.
“What are you doing?”
I turned, and there she was, already making her way down the stairs, one hand trailing the banister like it remembered better days.
“Mom,” I said, trying to sound calm. “You heard what the doctor said. The stairs aren’t safe, not with your medication.”
“I don’t need that junk,” she snapped. “I don’t know why everyone keeps treating me like I’m sick. I’m fine. I’m not some old woman.” She waved her hand dismissively, eyes flashing like a younger version of herself still living behind them.
She hadn’t noticed the bookcase—thank God. Before she could, I gently turned her around by the shoulders and started guiding her back upstairs.
“Let’s go sit, okay? Just for a minute.”
She huffed, but let me help her, muttering something about needing to check on the garden. The garden had been gone five years now.
We hadn’t been upstairs long before there was a soft knock at the door.
“Sheriff,” I said, surprised, though not entirely. Part of me had been wondering what had taken him so long.
He removed his hat, holding it respectfully to his chest. This was a quirk he’d had for as long as I could remember.
“Hi, Laura,” he said, voice low. He glanced past me into the living room. “How is she?”
I hesitated. My head tilted—not quite a nod, not quite a shake.
“Some days are better than others,” I said quietly. I turned slightly so he could see her—sitting in her chair by the window, staring out at nothing like it might talk back.
“Today...” I half-smiled, “she’s okay. Stubborn, though.”
Sheriff Collins tried not to smile, but the corners of his mouth gave him away. He’d known her long enough.
“Can I come in?” he asked. “It’s ... important.”
I stepped back and let him in. He placed his hat gently on the kitchen counter.
“Mom,” I said, louder than usual—she wouldn’t hear me otherwise, or maybe she’d just pretend not to. “Sheriff Collins is here.”
Then I walked over, crouched beside her chair, and leaned close.
“Mom ... it’s Hank. He wants to talk with us.”
She looked up, eyes narrowing at first, like he was a stranger. Then recognition flickered.
“Sheriff?” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming by.” Her eyes squinted. “Why do you look so much older?”
“I’ve aged, Ruth,” he said softly. “We all have.”
He turned to me, looking confused.
“The doctors said,” I began, “that she’s losing time. Caught in the past, thinking everything and everyone is still the way they used to be. The medication is helping—I think. Like I said, some days are better than others.” I nodded toward him. “But right now? Trust me. This is good.”
He nodded. That understanding smile crossed his face—the kind people wear when they don’t know what else to do with their sympathy.
“I didn’t know you were stopping by,” she repeated. Then her eyes brightened with a memory. “Do you have a girl with you?” she asked, suddenly rising. “I should call Dr. Hargrove—he’ll want to know.”
I rushed to steady her.
“Mom,” I said gently, “Dr. Hargrove passed away. Remember? A few months ago. The house is empty. Cindy moved in with their son. It’s up for sale now.”
She blinked. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Something in her face fell, just for a second, and then smoothed itself back over like nothing had happened.
“Well,” she said, brushing at her blouse, “that can’t be. I was just talking to him the other day. About that girl—you know, the one who dressed like a hussy. All the problems we had with her.” She then gave the sheriff a stern look, as if placing the blame squarely on him.
Hank and I exchanged a look. It said everything we didn’t want to say aloud.
“I’m assuming you actually restrained this one properly?” Mom asked, her tone sharp—the kind of sharp I usually ended up apologizing for. She wasn’t angry, at least not openly, but there was that condescending edge in her voice. The kind that made you feel small.
But more than that, I heard it—that quiet thrill beneath the words. Almost excitement. And that always bothered me.
I’d seen it growing up. The way she looked at these girls. The challenge in them. The more they resisted, the more it seemed to light something in her.
“Last time, you didn’t, and I got kicked. Right in the shin.” She shook her head, almost like she was proud of the scar. “These girls ... they’re always angry. It’s not their fault, I know—they’re sick—but still...”
She let the thought hang, then glanced over at the Sheriff, lips pursed like she was back in her old role, giving instructions no one had asked for.
“They need to be in their chains. Do you have her hands chained to her waist? Leg irons?” she asked, far too casually. “And the short ones, with the chain? That way, if this girl flails, I can drag her without too much trouble.”
“I spoke with the doctor—he confirmed that the chains are now a requirement, effective immediately,” she said firmly. “If you have any questions, you can take them up with him.”
The room froze. Sheriff Collins shifted where he stood, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t look at her. Not directly.
I glanced between the two of them. My voice came out low but steady.
“Mom ... there are no more girls. That ended a long time ago.”
She sniffed, unconvinced. “These girls,” she muttered, “they come in wild. Mouths like sailors. No respect—”
“Mom,” I interrupted gently, but then the Sheriff lifted a hand, a quiet signal to let him handle it.
He stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Ruth,” he said carefully, “She’s restrained. In the car. Everything’s under control. I’m actually here to talk to you about something else. It’s important.”
Mom nodded slowly, but her eyes slid toward the window, searching, like she needed to see it with her own eyes before she believed it.
“Alright,” she said finally, though she didn’t sound convinced. “As long as she’s properly restrained until she can see the doctor and get fitted for her jacket.”
She then raised her eyebrows. “And if this one talks back ... she’ll get the muzzle. I’m not tolerating any more obscene language from these girls. No one speaks to me like that hussy did.”
“Dr. Hargrove approved the use of muzzles as well,” she said with a disturbingly satisfied look. “I brought it to his attention, and he had no objections—he’s already agreed to sign off on the measure. From now on, those girls will be muzzled.”
She added curtly, “We’ve already received the first shipment at the hospital. The rest will be arriving in a few weeks—more than enough to silence any of them if they get the idea that their opinions matter.”
Sherrif Collins didn’t respond immediately. Just lowered his gaze, the same way you do when something breaks and you can’t fix it. He then glanced at me and tried again.
“Ruth,” he said again, gently, like he was reminding her they were still in the same room. “I need to talk to you about that girl. The one you mentioned. The one who liked to dress up. I need to talk to you about that night. About what happened years ago.”
“What do you mean, years ago? It was just the other night you brought her in—all wild, dressed like a tart, and not chained up like she should’ve been,” Ruth snapped, her voice sharp as a snapped twig.
Then, her eyes narrowed with bitter disgust. “And apparently she didn’t learn a thing, because we saw her—dressed like one of those loose women. The kind in those disgusting magazines. The ones bought by those men who get off on seeing women like that...” She trailed off, her voice heavy with disdain.
“I need to speak to the doctor,” she snapped. “He must have authorized her release, because I most certainly did not.” Her tone made it clear—her temper didn’t spare even the doctor.
Hank glanced at me. I closed my eyes, recognizing the confusion in his gaze, even though I knew exactly what Mom meant.
“Sophie Barnes,” I finally mouthed quietly, the words dragging out of me like they weighed a ton.
I sighed, then began to explain in a whisper, careful not to let Mom overhear.
“I was with her. We went over to borrow a book from Sophie for Karen, and...”
My voice trailed off. I didn’t quite know how to explain it. And frankly, I didn’t want to. But Mom brought it up.
The fact that Sophie was dating Hank’s son only made the whole thing messier.
“While we were there,” I continued quietly, “Sophie came out of her bedroom ... dressed as a ... um...”
I closed my eyes and let out a slow sigh, then forced myself to just say it.
“She was dressed as a dominatrix. And she was ... in handcuffs.”
Hank blinked, taken aback—but not entirely surprised. Then he turned to me, his voice dropping to a quieter tone I wasn’t used to hearing from him.
“Jennifer was there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They started arguing. Sophie wanted the cuffs off, but Jennifer refused. Not until Sophie could prove she could walk in the high-heel boots she had her in.”
He raised an eyebrow. “This was for one of those pageants?”
“You know how Jennifer’s obsessed with that stuff,” I said. “She said it was part of Sophie’s routine for the competition—that she had to learn to walk in the heels, to balance in stilettos, because she was going to be using a whip.”
Hank exhaled through his nose, but said nothing.
“And Sophie was upset,” I added. “Really upset. I don’t think she knew we were even there. She just came out in full leather—jacket, corset, tight skirt, stockings. And those boots—had to be five, maybe six-inch heels.”
“That girl’s been walking in heels since I can remember,” he said quietly, more to himself.
“Since she was a kid,” I said quietly. “What was she—six? That’s when Jennifer started dressing her like a grown woman. Pantyhose, high heels ... and then all that makeup...”
“But this was different,” I insisted. “Her hair was slicked back, and the makeup was caked on. Not pageant-glam—something darker. The way she was dressed ... it was like her mother had ... Like she was trying to make her daughter look not just older, but sexual. Like she was trying to make her look attractive to older men.”
I looked at him.
“I’m serious. This didn’t feel like dress-up—it wasn’t innocent. I hate to admit it, but I agree with Mom ... she looked like one of those women. And it makes no sense. Considering how they go on about their Catholic values ... how does this even fit? Tight clothes, painted face, posing like she’s twenty-something?”
“But Sophie didn’t seem upset by any of that. I guess she’s just used to it,” I said, pausing thoughtfully.
“I think what really upset her were the cuffs. She just wanted them off.”
“Did she explain why she had her in them?” Hank asked.
I hesitated to answer, but then told him.
“Jennifer said some of the other moms tie their daughters’ hands to help them learn to walk in heels. Said it helps with balance.”
I nodded, shrugging my shoulders.
“You know how that world is. Those moms—they’re vicious. They’ll make stuff up, tell other moms things just to sabotage them.” I sighed.
“So, who knows if they really do those things, or if they just told Jennifer hoping she’d actually do it—tie her daughter’s hands. And with Jennifer being an extremist ... well, instead of something simple like loosely using a men’s tie, it turned into handcuffs.”
Hank ran a hand down his face and bit his lower lip like he was trying not to curse.
“Were they heavy-duty?” he asked. “With the old-style locks?”
He then gestured to the cuffs on his belt.
“Or were they like these?”
I shook my head. “They didn’t look like those. They were definitely real, but older-looking. And yeah, with protruding locks...”
I looked at him, hesitant to say it out loud—but I knew what he was really asking.
“They looked like ... like the ones I remember from when I was little. You know ... the ones those girls used to wear.”
Hank nodded again. Then sighed. “And what happened after that?”
“We took the book and left,” I said. “I needed to leave before my mom said something. You know how she can get.”
“And Sophie?” he asked.
“She didn’t look scared—just embarrassed and, well, angry. Jennifer was being ... Jennifer. You know, controlling. I didn’t think anything of it.”
I sighed, looking at him like I was confessing something.
“But afterwards ... I thought about maybe calling you. Just to check on her.” I tilted my head. “It was ... it was all that makeup. And those clothes ... they just made her look so much older. And she’s a teen now. So, she’s pretty much almost a woman. You’d swear she was in her mid to late twenties,” I told him. “But we saw her the next day with Steve, and she seemed fine. Still cuffed, but okay.”
Hank shut his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, as if he wasn’t surprised to find Sophie in handcuffs with his son. Then he looked at me—hesitant, like he was weighing whether I deserved an explanation. But eventually, he spoke.
“The cuffs ... they’re from the prison. You were right—they’re the same kind we used to use. I was down there a while back, checking out that inmate dog-training program we’re trying to get off the ground. They had boxes of them just sitting there—guess no one ever got around to tossing them after all the changes. I figured Steve might like a set. He’s always talking about going into law enforcement.”
He paused, rubbed the back of his neck again.
“Didn’t think he’d...” His eyes dropped to the floor, his hands resting on his belt, then slowly lifted to meet mine again with a small, sheepish smile.
“I should’ve known better. And I knew she’d end up in them eventually. I even gave them the whole talk about how those cuffs are cut- and tamper-proof, uniquely keyed. Hell, I even stashed away a spare set of keys Steve doesn’t know about—just in case that poor girl ever got stuck and panicked.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him, dry and tired.
“I just didn’t think he’d keep her in them in front of other people.” He sighed again, deeper this time. “I’ll have a word with that boy.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” I said gently. “Like I said—she seemed perfectly fine. Nothing like she was when we saw her with her mom.” I offered a small smile. “There’s a big difference between being handcuffed by your mom and being handcuffed by your boyfriend.”
I shrugged. “Honestly, she didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. They were just walking down the street like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was talking, laughing—completely at ease. Like she didn’t even notice they were on.”
“It looked like she was very comfortable in them,” I said. “Like she’s had a lot of practice.”
“They were at least in front?” he asked.
I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
He closed his eyes and exhaled, like he was trying to breathe out the reality of it.
“Teenagers,” I said with a shrug.
For the first time since he’d arrived, he smiled back. A real one this time—tired, but genuine.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Kids.”
“What are the two of you whispering about?” Mom said. “And are you bringing that girl in? I need to get changed ... I need to call the doctor.”
“Mom,” I replied gently, “it’s ... it’s okay. Why don’t I help you to the table? We can sit and talk to Sheriff Collins. He wants to talk to us.”
“I helped Mom to a chair and sat her down, but she was agitated. I knew she wanted to change into her nursing uniform.”
“Ruth,” Hank started, his voice low but steady. “Candice Vail. You know, the one we’ve been talking about? The one who goes by Candy.”
He paused for a moment, watching Ruth’s reaction, as if waiting for the name to click. He could tell it wasn’t quite registering yet.
“She’s...,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “she’s the one who kicked you that night? Do you remember. I didn’t have her in the usual restraints. Only her hands cuffed behind her.”
His tone softened, and I could see he was doing his best to speak to Mom calmly, trying not to agitate her any more than she already was. “I need some information from you,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I need to know what happened that night—after I left. I need to know what happened to her. At the hospital.”
“That hussy got what she deserved,” Mom snapped, her voice sharp and defensive.
Sheriff Collins didn’t flinch. He kept his tone measured and calm, speaking in short, deliberate sentences, trying to keep her grounded. “Ruth, this is really important. I know it’s hard for you, but Dr. Hargrove is gone. He passed away. He was about to stand trial, and now, with him gone, the State of New York is looking at you. The state prosecutor is considering charges against you. These are very serious charges. It could mean prison.”
He paused, giving her a moment to absorb the weight of his words. “Cindy moved away. She’s claiming she didn’t know anything about what her husband was doing. Nothing. And that you and he orchestrated everything that happened at the women’s hospital. That you knew what was happening there. That you ordered it.”
Hank’s eyes shifted from Mom to me, his sigh heavy with frustration and concern. Mom just sat there, eyes fixed somewhere far off, avoiding him entirely.
I squeezed her hand gently, trying to draw her back into the conversation. “Mom,” I said softly, “Did you hear what Sheriff Collins said? This is really important. You need to listen. He needs some information from you. He’s trying to help us.”
Again, she just sat there, silent.
“She does this,” I replied, struggling to find the right words. “I’m not sure if it’s just a series of episodes, or if she’s simply losing track of time. The doctors say it’s typical with her condition. It’s common for patients to experience periods of confusion and disorientation. But honestly, I think she’s also deliberately shutting down—avoiding the things she can’t process, or the things she doesn’t want to face. It’s like she’s mentally retreating.”
I paused, the reality of her condition hitting me again. “It’s like she’s trying to hold on to what she can, but the rest slips away.”
“So, what’s going on?” I then asked. “It’s been years. And I thought this was over with—especially after Hargrove ... you know, with him gone.”
He placed his hands firmly on the table, his expression grave. “You know how messy this whole situation has become. Despite all the changes—the hospital having been closed for decades now, all the new laws and regulations—they’re still pushing to hold people accountable. The media’s made it worse, naturally. There’s even talk about a documentary exposing everything that happened at that hospital. They’re calling it an ‘asylum,’ a ‘women’s prison.’ You can imagine how the governor feels about all this. He just wants it to go away.”
Hank paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Mom. “But with Hargrove gone, the state needs someone to blame. They want to point to someone and say, ‘They did this, and now they’re paying for it in prison.’”
He leaned back, looking frustrated. “Does it fix anything? No,” he said, shaking his head. “But with all the lawsuits finally swashed, the state’s terrified a documentary like Blackfish could open up another wave of them—and more chaos. You’ve heard how much damage that film has done in just the past few months. The way it’s shifted public opinion? They’re worried this could be the same thing, only worse.”
He rubbed his temples, the burden of it all weighing heavily on him. “That’s what they’re afraid of. And it’s driving all of this.”
“But what about the others?” I asked, voice low. “Cindy? ... She knew what was happening.” I leaned back, clasped my hands on the table, and stared at him. “There’s a fucking room in their bedroom. Her husband built it—to hold women until they could be dragged off to the hospital.” I shook my head slowly, eyes locked on his. “You’re seriously going to sit there and tell me she didn’t know it was there?” I narrowed my eyes. “There’s no fucking way. It’s ... in ... their ... bed ... room.”
Hank held up a hand, signaling he got it. “Laura, I agree with you,” he said, letting out a sigh and shaking his head. “I’m not saying any of this is fair—because it’s not.”
“All they have to do is go into that house. Look in that room. Then there’s no way Cindy can claim she didn’t know,” I insisted, trying to inject some common sense into the situation.
“I know ... I know...” he said, nodding toward me. “I hear you. But Cindy’s made a lot of friends—powerful ones. The governor, for one. And she’s known Andrew’s wife for decades.” He shook his head slowly. “Nothing’s going to happen to her.”
“This is so unfair,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning back. “You’re making it sound like Hargrove and my mom were the only ones.”
“What about you?” I asked—hesitant, but not really. “The sheriff’s department brought the girls here, didn’t they? Sometimes in the middle of the night.” I paused, my voice tightening. “I remember those nights. I’d look out my bedroom window and see you ... pulling women out of the back of your car, all chained up. Some of them were my age. Just teenagers. Mom was there. The doctor, too. You always parked in the driveway across the street, out of sight, but I had a clear view.”
I swallowed. “I never told anyone what I saw. Not even my mom. And I won’t. And if I ever do, I’ll water it down—say maybe I saw one girl, and stay vague.”
I paused again—this time to soften my tone, to make it sound less like an accusation. Leaning back in my chair, shoulders slumped, I said quietly, “I know you were just doing your job. You were only doing what you were told.”
I glanced over at Mom. “But ... she’ll say the same thing.”
Hank sighed. “There’s a lot I would’ve done differently, if I had the chance,” he said quietly, reflective. “I’m not that same person anymore. I was so young. Only a few years older than you. Way too young to be the sheriff of a town.” He looked up, more firmly now. “I wouldn’t have brought those women here—not now.” He nodded slowly. “Yeah ... some of them really needed help. Some were struggling. But a lot of them weren’t ... they weren’t mentally ill.”
“And even when they were ... when they were violent ... they didn’t deserve what happened to them,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But karma’s a bitch, as they say. The universe has a way of setting things right.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice low.
“I’m sick, Laura,” he said, his tone flat, emotionless. “Brain tumor. Frontal lobe. Doctors say there’s nothing they can do. It’s not aggressive, not fast-growing ... but it’ll cause cognitive issues. Severe ones in the coming years.” He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Even if I were sent to prison—it wouldn’t matter.”
He looked at Mom. “Just like your mother. It wouldn’t matter. We spent those years putting those women in that hospital, telling ourselves it was for their own good. That they were crazy. That we were helping them. And now ... me and your mom—we’re being punished. Our minds are being taken from us.”
He paused, his eyes steady. “Poetic, isn’t it?”
“Does Steve know?” I asked looking sympathetic.
“No,” he replied. “I can’t bear to tell him. I’m ... I’m just hoping for enough time to make sure I leave this place—this town—in good hands.”
“I ... I don’t understand,” I said.
Hank sighed. “You and I both know how things work around here. The people. The history. Folks in this town are deeply rooted in their ways—it goes all the way back to when the first settlers set foot here.”
He looked down at his hands. “The deputies ... how do I put this ... they’re assholes. And the ones who aren’t? They get eaten alive by the ones who are. I need to make sure I pass the torch to someone with a level head, a stronger moral compass—someone who can keep the deputies in line. At least until the worst of them retire and we can start bringing in better people. Bit by bit, the place might actually change.”
I just looked at him, unsure what to say.
He kept going, like he wasn’t even talking to me anymore—just letting his thoughts spill out, like he’d been turning this over in his mind for a long time.
“There’ll be an election, sure. But let’s be honest—Steve’s going to be the next sheriff. Just like I took over from my dad. He’s graduating high school next year, then it’s straight to the academy. I just need to hold on until he’s ready.”
He looked up at me. “He’s a good kid. He’ll make a good sheriff—fair, but firm. And that’s exactly what this town needs. A better sheriff. Someone who’ll clean up the department. Someone who’ll be a hell of a lot better than I ever was.”
Then he smiled, a softer light coming into his eyes. “I just need to have a word with him about parading his girlfriend around town in handcuffs. He’s got the most beautiful girl in this town absolutely enamored with him. I see her like a daughter—nurturing, generous, but with fire in her. She doesn’t take shit from anyone, and she’ll protect the people she loves with everything she’s got.”
His smile faltered, just slightly. “I’m afraid my son doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t understand that she’s far more beautiful on the inside than the outside. And if he’s not careful, he’s going to lose her.”
I could see him refocusing, pulling himself back to the conversation at hand. He sat up and leaned forward, his hands still resting on the table.
“The honest truth, Laura,” he said, looking straight at me, “the state doesn’t care about me or the guards who worked at the hospital. Most of them are gone now anyway. They’re after the people at the top. And that was Hargrove—and your mom.”
He paused, then added, “She was the head nurse. Everyone was terrified of her. Even me. And nothing moved in that place without her say-so. Not even a speck of dust.”
As much as I wanted to argue, I couldn’t—because he was right, and I knew it. Dr. Hargrove might have signed the paperwork and held the official title, but it was Mom who truly ran the place. She was the heartbeat of the operation, the one who kept things moving when no one else could. She didn’t just manage the day-to-day—she made the everyday possible.
I nodded, but kept quiet. After a moment, I asked, “So, what do you want to know about Candy? She’s around my age now—she’s not that young girl anymore.”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “Candice is one of the people who might be providing a story for that rumored documentary,” he said. “I know the state spoke to her when Hargrove’s trial was happening. She was supposed to be a witness, and I have a feeling she’ll be involved in your mom’s case, too.” He looked at me, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I need to know what she knows. What happened after I left? At the hospital. What did she see, what did she experience? I need to know what your mom knows.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you just ask her yourself?” I said, frustration creeping into my voice. “As you can tell, my mom isn’t exactly the most reliable source of information these days.”
He shook his head, his expression hardening. “No,” he replied, his tone flat. “Candice hasn’t exactly been forthcoming over the years. After the hospital shut down and she was released, she stayed in town. Got some money from the state and bought that storefront with the apartment upstairs—the bookstore. And last year, her sister-in-law passed away, and she’s taken in her nieces. Their father ... well, he’s a nice guy, but he’s not exactly the ‘coping’ type, if you know what I mean.”
He paused, rubbing his hands together absently. “So, Candice has become wary of law enforcement. Or, really, any kind of authority. She keeps to herself these days—focuses on her nieces. She’s fiercely protective of them. So, she won’t talk to me. I’m the one who brought her to the hospital that night ... I’m the one who fucked up her life.”
“But here’s the issue,” he said, leaning forward completely. “The rumor is that she has paperwork on the hospital—about events, things that happened. Damning evidence. Evidence that would implicate the doctor, your mom, me ... a lot of people. People who don’t want to be implicated.”
He paused, letting it sink in. “So, I need to know what your mom knows. Because if she can’t tell me what she knows about whatever information Candice might have, then I’ll be forced to visit her ... and it won’t be a courtesy call. I don’t want to do that ... she has two young girls living there now.”
“That damn woman got exactly what she deserved,” my mom spat, her voice thick with contempt. “That’s what happens when you go messing around with other men’s wives, acting like some kind of queer ... asking for trouble, if you ask me.”
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