Later, at the clinic, Olivia sat on my lap under bright fluorescent lights and clutched the same stuffed bear.
The intake form asked what happened.
I wrote the truth.
I did not make it prettier.
I did not make it uglier.
Adult family member struck child across face after child grabbed food from another child.
The nurse read it twice.
Her mouth tightened.
She asked if Olivia was safe at home.
I said, “She is now.”
Michael stood beside the chair and looked like every answer in his life had come late.
When we got home, Sarah was gone.
The guest room door was open.
The blue walls looked brighter without her in them.
The sheets were stripped.
The lamp was still on the nightstand.
Outside the porch window, the little flag lifted and fell in the evening air.
Olivia slept between us that night because I could not bear to put her alone in her crib.
