“My mother stung and stung. Her words stung. Her fury stung. Her palm stung across my skin. Some part of love must be the stinging. After enough of the red welts, you start to change. Eventually, you begin to hide. You stay in your room, quiet. Eventually, after enough stings, you learn to avoid the wasp altogether. Eventually, you grow up and move as far away as you can. You might even put an entire country between yourself and the wasp queen.”
