They practice.
They test one boundary, then another, until the day they realize nobody has been keeping count.
I had been keeping count.
I just had not known how much the total would cost.
I carried Olivia to the armchair and sat her carefully on my lap.
The old wall clock above the entryway clicked steadily.
The soup continued to bubble in the kitchen behind us.
I grabbed a clean dish towel from the laundry basket I had folded that morning and pressed it under Olivia’s nose.
“Breathe, baby,” I whispered. “Mommy’s right here.”
Her little fingers gripped my wrist.
Her face was hot and wet against my hand.
For one ugly heartbeat, I wanted to scream so loudly the windows shook.
I wanted to throw the plate.
I wanted to make Sarah feel one second of the terror my child had felt.
But Olivia was watching me.
