William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“William,” Marsha said, stopping near the rear bumper of the sedan while Sue watched from the porch window. “I wanted to say I am sorry about Friday.”
I stopped, the cold metal of the car key pressing into my palm.
“You were right,” Marsha said, her tone softer than it had been in weeks. “I was too hard on him in the car. He just needs a little structure, and my mother knows how to provide that.”
“He is five, Marsha,” I said. “He does not need military discipline.”
“I know,” she said, her manicured nails brushing my sleeve. “I made a mistake. Let us just go home and start over.”
She opened the rear door for Owen, helping him slide into his car seat before she climbed into the front.
I walked around to the driver’s side, but as I reached for the handle, a flash of red in the gray plastic trash can by the curb caught my eye.
The lid of the bin was tilted open, a bundle of dead garden weeds spilling over the side.
