Dizzy sparks cascaded in my skull, and accusing inner fingers leached self-esteem from my bones
Yesterday, the kitchen wall gleamed with a fresh coat of paint. Today, it’s streaked with a black scribble.
The order I crave vanishes into a black hole inside my chest. “Who did this!” I lunge toward my seven-year-old. “Was it you?!”
Avi looks me in the eye. “No.”
I swing around to glare at five-year-old Shifra. She shakes her head. Wide eyes stare at me.
Is this how I looked at Mom when she yelled?
Create a free account to keep reading.
