William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“If she is just helping, why did Owen scream when we dropped him off?” I asked.
Marsha reached over, picked up the printed page, and folded it in half without looking at the text.
“He screamed because you have spent five years teaching him that the world is a terrifying place,” she said.
She folded the paper a second time, pressing her thumb along the crease until the paper was a thick, narrow rectangle.
“You are just a damaged foster kid who does not know what a real family looks like,” she said.
The words sat in the space between us, heavy and cold.
“My childhood has nothing to do with Sue’s state record,” I said, though my voice sounded thinner than it had a moment before.
“It has everything to do with it,” Marsha said, her eyes fixed on my face. “You see monsters in every corner because you grew up in temporary bedrooms with people who did not want you.”
“That is not true,” I said.
“You are forty-two years old, William, and you still look at a normal grandmother’s house and see a prison,” she said.
