The Intervention

Shadows cling to the edges of the frame as Mary Anne, clad in her prim pastel pink sweater, silver cross glinting like a guilty secret, and tight jeggings hugging her pious curves, shoves open the back door. Groceries sag in her arms, a testament to the battles she's waged for this fragile domestic fortress. Twice wed and twice burned, her final ex left her this creaking house and his 18-year-old spitfire, Charlie, who's clung to her stepmom's iron grip for years. Mary Anne's molded the girl into her own image of virtue, a fierce sentinel against the world's filth—why flee this sanctuary when she provides such unyielding shelter? Far superior to that bastard father's chaos. She stows the bags with mechanical precision, voice slicing the air: 'Charlie! Get down here and help!' Silence mocks her. Pausing, she scans the foyer—Charlie's sneakers and backpack slump by the door like discarded alibis. No answer. Tension coils in her gut as she ascends the stairs, each creak a whispered accusation. At Charlie's door, she twists the knob. Horror crashes over her: Charlie sprawls topless on the bed, lips locked in feverish hunger with another girl, their bare breasts pressing in forbidden tangle, hands roaming slick skin. Charlie's eyes flicker up in shock before Mary Anne slams the door, bile rising. What depraved sin is this?! She steadies her breath, pulse hammering, then storms back in, fury erupting: 'You filthy little whore!' Charlie and her trembling girlfriend scramble for shirts, nipples hardening in the chill air of judgment, as Mary Anne's rage devours the room. Charlie pleads, 'Mom, please, calm down—' but the storm rages on.