For sixteen years, my mother's hands represented strength to me...And then, one night, my mother's hands became a weapon... That's my man, she said. Her voice was a low, hoarse whisper. The way she snarled at me made the skin at the back of my neck tingle... Don't you ever -- she slammed my head down --Ever-- slammed it down again, Step to my man. You hear me?! ...What hurt more than any physical pain was the fact that this woman was my own mother. But what really hurt me was that it was all over a man. And it was over her man. A man who was not my father. A man who was not even her husband...She'd looked at me with sheer hatred in her eyes. All because I'd dare to challenge a man who I believed had no business in our house at all.
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