My mother gazes across the kitchen table toward my father’s empty chair. He left her months ago for someone else. I’m twelve. Their only child. “What’s for dinner?” I try to keep my voice light, but she ignores me as usual. I stare at her hand, soft against the slender glass of whisky, and my body tingles, as if ice water trickles down my spine. “Mom?” She turns. Speaks. “He left because of you.” She sips her drink. I can’t move. Blood roaring, pounding behind my eyes. Yet one lucid thought cuts through the rage: I would leave her, too.
Jennifer Mills Kerr leads adult creative writing groups online. She loves mild winters, anything Jane Austen, and the raucous coast of Northern California.