My socks slipped once on the hardwood at the hallway turn.
When I reached the living room, my two-year-old daughter was on the floor, clutching her stuffed bear with both hands.
Blood was coming from her nose.
Five red fingerprints were stamped across her little cheek.
Sarah, my mother-in-law, stood above her with both hands on her hips.
Tyler, her favorite grandson, sat on my couch with a hot dog in his hand and mustard on the corner of his mouth.
For a few seconds, the room looked so ordinary that the horror of it almost did not fit.
The afternoon light was still coming through the porch window.
The small American flag outside the glass was still moving in the weak breeze.
The TV was muted.
A tablet screen glowed on the couch cushion beside Tyler.
A white paper plate sat on the coffee table, holding the half-eaten hot dog that would apparently become the excuse Sarah used for putting her hand on my child.
