Twenty-seven hours later, I returned early because the school library basement flooded during a thunderstorm. I thought I would surprise Meadow. Maybe we’d go home and bake banana bread. Maybe we’d paint her nails lavender and watch an old movie.
Instead, Judith blocked the doorway.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Where’s Meadow?”
“Learning.”
One word. Flat. Proud.
I pushed past her.
The house was silent in a way no house with a child should be silent. No cartoons. No humming. No little feet running down the hall.
Then I heard crying from the guest bedroom.
After I carried Meadow out, I drove straight home with one hand on the steering wheel and the other reaching back so she could hold my fingers. She wore my raincoat hood over her head, curled into her booster seat like she was trying to disappear.
At home, Dustin was waiting.
His first words were not, “Is she okay?”
They were, “Mom called. You screamed at her.”
I stared at him across our kitchen, my wet clothes dripping on the tile. Meadow had gone upstairs without speaking.
“Did you tell your mother she could shave our daughter’s head?”
Dustin rubbed his face. “I told her to handle the situation.”
“What situation?”
“Meadow’s attitude.”
