William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I entered the master bedroom and found Marsha sitting up in bed, a stack of student papers from my own desk resting on her lap.
“You left these in the study,” she said, holding up a syllabus for my introductory child psychology class.
“I need to grade those before Thursday,” I said, reaching for the papers.
She did not hand them to me. She kept her fingers clamped on the corner of the blue folder.
“You teach eighteen-year-olds how the brain develops, but you cannot even manage a five-year-old child,” she said.
“Teaching theory is different from parenting,” I said, adjusting my glasses.
“You are a weak instructor, William,” she said, her voice flat and rhythmic. “And you are an even weaker father.”
The lamp on the nightstand cast long, sharp shadows across her face, making her eyes look like dark hollows.
“I am trying to protect him,” I said.
“From what?” she asked, her voice rising slightly. “From his grandmother? From a structured environment?”
She tossed the syllabus onto the floor at the foot of the bed.
