I just had a major confrontation with Scott’s mother. Her husband was finally out of the house, and she was here alone… which is what I’ve been hoping for.

Things got pretty ugly. She was still absolutely livid about what happened yesterday, and lashing out at me. Threatened me. Told me she was going to call her lawyer tomorrow.

And so… I did something that might backfire on me, big time. A last-minute, desperate, high-stakes gambit. I don’t know yet; we’ll see if it works.

I didn’t want to do it, but for the last several weeks, I’ve felt cornered, with my world slowly closing in on me. I really felt like I had reached the point of no return, with nothing left to loose, leaving me no choice but to act.

They’re leaving tomorrow, and I was running out of time to try to change the dynamic of what’s been happening.

We were in the great room, arguing. I had a small steak knife in my hand, tucked inside my wrist; hidden from view. I had retrieved it moments earlier from the kitchen. Not because I intended to do anything with it. For me, ever since I was a little girl, after I was raped, I’ve always associated knives with protecting myself. It’s kind of a weird, reactive habit I’ve always had. On more than one occasion, it freaked out my husband, who never understood why I would do that whenever I was scared.

Scott’s mother was yelling at me, told me that I never loved her son, that I only married him for the money. That I was trash. That I was a whore. That I had corrupted her grand-daughter. That she regretted the day he ever met me. That I was going to get nothing from them. That I would end up on the streets where I belonged.

And that was the mild stuff.

I was shaking. Scared. But also determined. I could feel the knife in my right hand, my palm sweating and hot. I had visions of leaping towards her and cutting her face with it.

It was probably a good thing she was across the room from me.

And then I made my decision.

I walked towards the couch and dropped the knife behind one of the cushions.

I turned to her, and shouted, “You know… there’s something you need to know about Scott, something that can make the difference between him possibly getting out in October, or staying in for the rest of his life. So… pay attention, you stupid fucking bitch. If you really care about your son, you need to see this.”

I reached for the master remote, which was on the center table, and flipped on the AV system. The screen came on. I picked up my iPad, which was also on the center table, put my finger on the home button, it sensed my fingerprint, and came on. Then I opened up an app, and hit another button.

The video came on almost immediately, six feet across on the opposite wall, above the fireplace.

Less than a minute later, Scott’s mother was screaming. But not at me. She was screaming to the heavens. A loud, desperate howl. She was screaming to her God.

I wasn’t yelling at her anymore. I was calm. Controlled. My eyes flitted to the cushion hiding the knife; my protection if I needed it.

And then I told her, “This isn’t even the good one. The one after this, that’s the one you really need to see. That’s the one that can put your son away forever if you keep fucking with me.”