She watched me apologize to end conversations.
She watched me learn the difference between peace and quiet.
Children do not only hear what we tell them.
They study what we survive.
When Emily spit into the sink that night, the saliva was streaked pink.
I saw it before Michael did.
For one second I was not afraid of him.
I was afraid of the stain swirling toward the drain.
“We have to take her to the emergency room,” I said.
Michael stepped forward and took the thermometer out of my hand.
He looked at the number on the screen.
His mouth tightened, not with concern, but irritation.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah. You make her weak with all this babying.”
I wanted to scream then.
I wanted to throw the thermometer at the mirror and let the whole house wake up to the sound of something finally breaking.
I pictured it so clearly that my fingers twitched.
