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She slammed the glass down onto the table so hard that it shattered; she could feel the shards cutting through her skin but it didn’t really matter—she hated that glass anyways.
“You don’t understand, you don’t have a f*ing family to bring home diplomas and featured articles for, you—”
He gave a half hearted laugh and his fingers clenched at his hair; he sounded maniacal.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t the prince charming your maids read about to you at bedtime, my deepest regrets that I came from an orphanage and not a Beverly Hills mansion like you—”
“You’re always pitying yourself, you think you have it the worst—”
“You’re so stubborn, just listen to me—”
“But I have problems too, I’m not perfect—”
“Mallory, listen—”
“It’s not always about you—”
“It’s not my fault the baby died!”
The silence rose thick and heavy in the kitchen and she stood there open-mouthed, gaping. He was crying now, hysterical and hurt at the same time. He looked regretful. But she could feel the shame flaming up on her cheeks and there was nothing more she wanted then than to sink through the floor and melt into hell.
“Mallory, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—”
Her palm was stinging before she knew she had even slapped him, she saw blood trickling down from his lip but she didn’t care, she was crying too, it was so hard to do things right.
Screw you, she wanted to say. Screw you, I’m so, so sorry.
But she slid down onto her knees and screamed instead.
I’m sorry.





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