I Politely Asked My Daughter-in-Law Not to Smoke — My Son Slapped Me, But 15 Minutes Later

I didn’t have money for an Uber. I’d already given them $400 that month. Plus another $50 for groceries I’d bought. Plus my portion of the water bill Sloan said was too high.

I took the bus instead. It came late. I stood at the stop for twenty minutes. My chest ached.

My legs trembled. When the bus finally arrived, all the seats were full. I stood for forty minutes, holding a pole, trying to breathe, trying not to cough, trying not to pass out. The therapy session was hard.

Harder than usual. My muscles wouldn’t cooperate. My lungs wouldn’t expand. The therapist kept asking if I was okay.

I lied and said yes. The bus ride home was worse. Rush hour. Packed. Hot.

Someone’s cologne made my throat close up. I coughed until I tasted blood. By the time I got back to the house, it was six o’clock. I could barely walk.

My hands shook as I unlocked the door. My inhaler was upstairs in my room. I needed it. Needed air.

Needed to breathe. I made it to the kitchen. Leaned against the counter. Fumbled with my inhaler.

Two puffs. Wait. Two more. My chest loosened.

Slowly. So slowly. That’s when Sloan walked in. She wore yoga pants.

A designer tank top. Her hair in a perfect ponytail. She looked fresh. Rested. Beautiful.

She went straight to the cabinet. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit one right there in the kitchen. The smoke hit me like a fist to the chest.

My throat closed. I started coughing. Deep. Wet. Painful.

The kind that makes your ribs feel like they’re breaking. Like they’re being pulled apart by invisible hands. «Sloan.» My voice came out as a whisper.

A plea. «Could you… could you please not smoke in here? My lungs.» She took another drag. Blew smoke in my direction.

The cloud drifted toward me. Wrapped around my face. «It’s my house, Loretta. I’ll smoke where I want.» My chest was on fire.

I couldn’t get air. Each attempt to breathe felt like drowning. Like being held underwater. «Please,» I begged.

Hated myself for begging. «I can’t… I can’t breathe.» «Then go to your room.» She flicked ash into the sink.

My clean sink. The one I’d scrubbed that morning. I stood up. I held onto the counter with both hands.

Just for a minute. «Please. I need…» The front door opened. Deacon walked in.

Loosening his tie. His briefcase in one hand. He took in the scene. Me, hunched over the counter.

Sloan with her cigarette. Smoke hanging in the air like a curse. «What’s going on?» His voice was tired. Annoyed.

Sloan gestured at me with her cigarette. Like I was the problem. Like I was the one being unreasonable. «Your mother is complaining again.»

«I just…» A cough cut me off. Deep and rattling. «I just asked if she could smoke outside because my lungs…»

«Shut up.» The words cracked through the kitchen like a gunshot. I froze. Deacon had never spoken to me like that.

Never. Not even as a teenager. Not even when his father died and everything fell apart. He crossed the space between us in three strides.

His face was red. Twisted. Ugly with rage. «You stink worse than smoke.»

«Every day it’s something with you. You’re always sick. Always needing something. Always making problems.»

«Deacon.» His palm connected with my cheek before I could finish. Sharp. Fast. Hard.

Pain exploded across my face. My head snapped to the side. My vision went white. Then black. Then white again.

I tasted copper. Blood. My teeth had cut the inside of my cheek. The taste filled my mouth.

Warm. Metallic. Real. I stood there. Frozen.

One hand rising slowly to touch my face. The skin burned. Throbbed. I could feel it swelling already.

Sloan laughed. That quiet, satisfied sound. A smirk curled her lips. She took another drag of her cigarette.

Watches me like I was entertainment. Like this was the best part of her day. «Maybe now you’ll learn to keep quiet,» Deacon said. His voice was cold.

Flat. Empty of anything that looked like love. Like regret. Like humanity.

He turned away from me. Walked to Sloan. Kissed her forehead. Gentle. Tender.

Everything he’d just refused to give his own mother. «Dinner out tonight?» he asked her. «Perfect,» Sloan purred. She stubbed out her cigarette.

On a plate. The white ceramic plate with the blue flowers. The one I’d washed that morning. The one I’d dried carefully and put away in the cabinet.

They left fifteen minutes later. I stood in the kitchen. My hand still pressed to my burning cheek. Watching them go.

Watching Deacon’s arm wrap around Sloan’s waist. Watching them laugh together. Watching them drive away in their expensive car with their expensive lives and their expensive everything. The house went silent.

Just my breathing. Ragged. Painful. Broken. I walked to my room.

Sat on the edge of the bed. The photograph of Deacon stared at me from the nightstand. His graduation smile. My arm around his shoulders.

That moment had been real. That love had existed. But it was dead now. Dead as his father.

Dead as my lungs. Dead as whatever part of me had believed family was everything. My phone sat on the nightstand. I picked it up.

My hands shook. My cheek throbbed. But my mind was clear. Clearer than it had been in six months.

I scrolled through my contacts. Found the first name. Pressed call. Marcus Chen answered on the second ring.

«Loretta.» «Marcus. I need help.»

The guest room is dark when I finish the third phone call. My cheek has stopped throbbing. Now it just aches. A dull, steady pain that matches my heartbeat.

I hear their car pull into the driveway. The garage door rumbles open. Sloan’s laughter echoes. High and bright.

Deacon’s voice rumbles underneath. They’re happy. Relaxed. Full of wine and whatever expensive food they ate while I sat here bleeding in their house.

I don’t move from the bed. Their footsteps sound on the stairs. They pass my room. Sloan says something I can’t hear.

Deacon laughs. Their bedroom door closes. I wait. Twenty minutes later, I hear water running.

Their shower. Then silence. I pick up my phone again. Open my photos.

Scroll back through six months of documentation I’d been collecting, without really knowing why. Photos of the guest room. The cracks in the ceiling. The window that doesn’t lock.

The bathroom I’m allowed to use, so small I can barely turn around. The mold growing in the corner because the ventilation doesn’t work. Photos of receipts. The $400 I pay them every month for household expenses.

The $50 water bill charge. The $75 for groceries they said I ate. The $100 for electricity they claimed I used. Photos of my medications.

The ones I’m supposed to take daily. The ones I started skipping because I couldn’t afford the refills. Photos of my bank statements. $1,100 in.

$800 out. Just to live in their guest room. To exist in their house. To breathe their air.

I’d been documenting everything. Every payment. Every humiliation. Every time Sloan wrinkled her nose, or Deacon looked through me like I was invisible.

I didn’t know I was building a case. I thought I was just keeping track. Just trying to make sense of how my life had become this. But now the photos look different.

They look like evidence. Marcus had said not to move anything. Not to change anything. To let them think everything was normal.

So I get ready for bed like always. Brush my teeth. In the tiny bathroom. Take my evening medications, the ones I can still afford.

Change into my nightgown. I lie in bed. Stare at the ceiling. Count the cracks.

Twenty-seven. I’ve counted them so many times I know each one by memory. My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus.

Met with my partner. We’re taking the case. Don’t engage with them. Don’t mention anything. Act normal. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. 9am sharp.

I type back. Thank you.

Another buzz. Rhonda this time. I’m bringing a photographer. We need documentation. Visual evidence. Also contacted Adult Protective Services. They’re sending an investigator. This is big, Loretta. Really big.

Then Vincent. Mama Loretta. I pulled Deacon’s financials. You won’t believe what I found. That boy has been lying to you about everything. Everything. See you tomorrow.

I set my phone down. Turn off the lamp. Lie in the darkness. Tomorrow.

Everything changes. Tomorrow. But tonight? I’m still just an old woman in a cold room.

With a handprint on her cheek. And a son who stopped loving her so long ago she can’t remember when it happened. My chest tightens. Not from the emphysema.

From something else. Something that feels like grief. Like rage. Like both at once.

I close my eyes. But I don’t sleep. I count the hours until morning. Until Marcus Chen arrives with his briefcase and his law degree and his memory of the woman who believed in him when no one else would.

Until Rhonda Washington shows up with her camera and her reporter’s notebook and her debt to the woman who held her mother’s hand while she died. Until Vincent Torres walks through that door and sees what Deacon has become. What he’s done to the woman who raised them both.

I count the hours. And I wait. Morning comes slowly. Grey light creeps through the window.

I’ve been awake all night. Watching the ceiling. Counting cracks. Listening to my lungs work.

At seven, I hear movement in their bedroom. The shower runs. Deacon’s electric toothbrush hums. Normal morning sounds.

Like yesterday didn’t happen. Like he didn’t strike his mother in their kitchen. I get up. My body aches.

My cheek is swollen. When I look in the mirror, the handprint is still there. Purple now. Angry.

Clear. The shape of his fingers visible on my skin. I take a photo. Add it to my collection.

Then I shower. Dress in clean clothes. Put on the cardigan Deacon bought me for Christmas three years ago. Back when he still pretended to care.

At eight, I go downstairs. They’re in the kitchen. Deacon drinks coffee and scrolls through his phone. Sloan eats yoghurt and reads something on her tablet.

They don’t look up when I enter. «Good morning,» I say. My voice sounds normal. Steady.

«Morning,» Deacon mutters. Doesn’t look up. Sloan says nothing. I pour myself coffee.

My hands don’t shake. I’ve had all night to prepare for this moment. To practice being calm. Being normal.