William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
The twelve thousand dollars was gone, swallowed by the non-refundable deposit for the Idaho camp, but I did not care about the money.
I had my son, and my community college job was secure.
David Vance had even offered me an extra section of developmental psychology for the spring semester, which would cover the rent on the apartment.
I took a sip of the hot tea, the bitter warmth spreading through my chest.
I looked at my hands, resting on the cold iron of the railing.
For years, I had believed Marsha when she told me I was too sensitive, too damaged by my own childhood to understand what a normal family required.
I had let her make the rules because I was terrified of my own history, always checking myself for the signs of paranoia she claimed to see.
But standing here, looking out at the gray roofs of the neighborhood, I knew my instincts had been right.
The knot of tension that had lived in my chest since the day Owen was born was gone, replaced by a simple, quiet clarity.
