some dresses I had brought from Germany, and I used them to make a skirt.
I often wondered at Ingeborg’s beautiful clothes. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she looked impeccable. She spent a lot of time and money beautifying herself. She not only neglected me, but she purposely harmed me.
Ingeborg worked as a cashier at a grocery store, and when she went to work, she left me lists of things to do. One day she wanted me to do the dusting. I was still dusting when she came home, but she looked around and said, “You didn’t dust.”
I said, “I dusted.”
“You are lying! You did not dust!”
My heart sped up. I felt frightened and vulnerable. “I’m not lying! I really did dust.”
She lunged at me. “You are lying!” she screamed. A hard slap landed on my face. I raised my arms and ducked, but she pummelled me like a punching bag. Her hands grabbed me. I jerked like a ragdoll as she heaved me against the wall. She kept slapping, pushing, even kicking me and screaming all the while that I had lied and hadn’t done what she told me to do. I lay curled against the wall, crying, wailing, begging for mercy, with my arms wrapped around my head for meagre protection. Suddenly a huge blow landed across my back and sent crushing pain through me. I could hardly breathe. I realized she had grabbed the broom and was bringing it down with all her force on me, again and again, until the handle snapped.
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