The old clock in the hallway only strikes once when it’s supposed to strike twelve. It has been that way for three years, and no one has bothered to fix the gears.

I was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, trying to disappear into the shadows of the landing. My shoulders are narrow and my frame is slight, the kind of build that makes me an easy target for our neighbours daughter Christina and her friends at school. I am the perfect target for mockery and bullying at school.

The silence of the hallway was shattered by the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut, followed immediately by the sharp, melodic cadence of my mother’s voice. "You think I am blind, Courtney? I see the mess! You see the mess!"

Mom stepped into the entryway, her presence filling the space. She was wearing a tight, white long sleeve undershirt that fought a losing battle against her curves. Every time she gestured with her hands—which she did frequently when she was indignant—the fabric strained. My eyes, betraying my intentions as always, locked onto her chest. The sheer mass of her breasts, those incredible, heavy, gigantic, natural NN-cups, jiggled with a rhythmic, hypnotic force as she paced. It was a gravitational pull I couldn't resist; the way they swayed under the thin material.