William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“My mother picked him up from preschool an hour ago,” Marsha said, her voice coming through the speaker with a dry, mechanical rattle. “He is safe at her house, where he belongs.”
“We had an agreement,” I said. “We were supposed to talk about this.”
“We did talk,” Marsha said. “But you do not listen, William. You never listen.”
I looked at the dashboard, where a small green plastic dinosaur Owen had left behind sat wedged near the windshield.
“He has school tomorrow,” I said. “He needs his routine.”
“He has a new routine now,” Marsha said. “If you come near my mother’s house, she will call the police. The court order is very clear about the distance you have to keep.”
“Marsha, please,” I said. “He is five years old. He does not understand why he is not at home.”
“He understands that his father is not well,” Marsha said. “The judge agreed with us.”
“You lied to the judge,” I said. “You used my past against me.”
“I told the truth about your background,” Marsha said. “The state records do not lie, William.”
