The Huge, Final Breaking Point

At work I'm paid by production, and every slow hand or careless mistake feels like someone stealing directly from me. I tell myself I'm holding it together, but I bring that rage home like a shadow I can't shake. I look at my daughter and she's beautiful, soft, trusting and then something tightens in my chest and I snap. I scream at her for a stain on her shirt, for crumbs on the floor, for anything that lets the anger loose. Sometimes I grip her shoulders harder than I mean to, feel her flinch, and still keep going because it's the only place I feel in control. I'm sick with shame afterward. But I don't stop. And I know one day I'll cross a line I can't undo.