Unbroken

Not a single word was heard as mother threw any reachable, tossable item at father. The one man I knew was good. Yet it seemed he broke a rule. A major rule between him and mom. Her eyes. Dimmed with hate. The shine of the glare spoke for her. A cambatant stance, of a ops special agent, shielding his life from them, even the lamp that easily could've killed him if not for the talent. Forced to stand and surrender to the women of the unbeaten and unbroken.
As she finally made her way to the kitchen, father found the perfect, safest, and probably the only chance to grab his keys and jacket and high tail it out. For mom wasn't just the cook...she was mom of the house for the traditional reason. Here she came into the living room, holding her uncles 1950 Wessen K-22...aimed at father through the window.
Just as she was about to shoot, my older sister grabbed mothers arm. Instead of fighting her daughter off, mother dropped the pistol, aimed even away from me, as if she knew I was sitting by the steps the entire time. Her tears. Seemed to hit the ground like snow when it fell off a roof on a pile. Sister stood mother up and aided her to the kitchen, shrugging her head at me to bring the gun. Only mother will know where to put it.
Mother. Staring down her coffee the next morning like it's on her assassination list. Her phone rings. From the look in her eyes, it didnt seem like father was on the other line, but work. She wasn't a good person to alot of her side of the family. This job was the reason. Holidays. Birthday after anniversary was without mom around. Only once for my sister's graduation from college...she stayed for a short time. Mother seemed to enjoy this call. It was a request. Mother finally finished the call and hung up. Stood up, kissed me on the forehead and as soon as my sister was coming around the corner to the kitchen, mother hugged her. Sister tensed up, thinking mom was about to tackle her, only to be kissed on the forehead as well, and mom went upstairs.
Her uncles pistol. Stained bronze from oil and age. Sat still in its holster. Cleaned and untouched. Barely looked used. Uncle told me the story of this gun. Last shot was in 1967. My uncle was under attack in York. London was an odd place to be back then. Only shot was an assassination confirmation on a vice president. Mother does that too. Assassin. Runs away from home for days. Yeah short schedule. She doesn't mess around.
After the divorce mom and sis had become distracted with the lose of Uncle. He was there when papers were signed for the divorce. Father ventured to the north. Somewhere in Montana. Mother seemed happier despite the loss. She kept us in prayer. Kept home life caught up and shared a drink with sister every once and awhile.
Ever since that night. That wicked lust for blood in my mother's eyes. Scared to make a mistake, yet, not a single word was heard. She held back everything. Father responded with respect and silently disappeared. Mother still does her job. Unbeaten. Unphased. Unbroken.