My Ruined Hands Drove Her Crazy

Summary

For eighteen years I was her blood, yet Mother treated me as a crash-test dummy clearing the way for her adopted daughter, Cindy. Now, to guarantee Cindy’s safety after eye surgery, she bound a blindfold over my eyes. “I must run a full sensory trial,” she said, knotting it tight before shoving me into the living room.

I stumbled, knee slamming into the TV console’s sharp corner. Silence. Mother sighed, not helping me up but scribbling notes: TV console, bottom right—hazard. My seventeenth bruise that afternoon. She wrapped the edge in foam, murmuring, “You’re tough. A bruise heals.