When I told my mother that I had bought a house, after saving for ten years to achieve it, she grabbed my hair and held a lighter to me.

“I am sorry that you feel that way, but that money belongs entirely to me because I am the one who worked for it every single day for ten years,” I said firmly. My mother’s expression shifted instantly from explosive fury to a chillingly calm demeanor that was far more frightening than her screaming.

She moved with surprising speed and grabbed a handful of my hair with a grip that was calculated to cause maximum pain without leaving any obvious bruises on my skin. I froze in shock as I felt my scalp begin to burn from the intensity of her hold while she stared into my eyes with a sickly kind of serenity.

With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small plastic lighter, flicking the wheel until a tiny flame of orange and blue appeared before my eyes. She brought the dancing heat dangerously close to my hair and whispered in a voice that sounded like a serrated blade.

“If you refuse to contribute to this family of your own free will, then I suppose you will have to learn your place through a much harder lesson,” she murmured. I could smell the faint scent of my expensive shampoo and the acrid aroma of the lighter fluid as the heat brushed against my cheek.