What did she mean by that? Can she hear the lie in my voice? I vow to get to the supermarket next weekend, even if I have to walk there pulling Ian in the sled. I had worked with a hundred kids when I taught school. So of course I can teach Ian, I think, can’t I?
The broken car, a snowstorm, Ian’s cold—these aren’t my fault are they?
The next Saturday, my ten-year-old daughter, Monica, Ian, and I take the bus to the supermarket. Monica pushes Ian, who makes bus noises while in the stroller, down the aisles. We have a short timeline to shop before Ian wants to go home. So we grab bread and milk, along with a cupcake tin, and rush to an open register next to rows of candy bars. Ian stops rocking his head back and forth and snatches a Hershey Bar. I grab his hand, pry the chocolate from his fist and toss it on the counter just out of his reach. His face opens into a pit where a trapped animal howls.