Our daughter moved beneath her sweater.
I could see the tiny shift.
My anger softened instantly.
“How are you feeling?”
Clare looked up.
“Tired.”
“Anything hurting?”
“No.”
“Baby moving?”
“She’s apparently training for kickboxing.”
That got a small smile out of me.
It was the first real one I had seen since Saturday.
I walked around the island and kissed the top of her head.
“I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes.
“Ian, you didn’t throw the shoe.”
“No. But I kept taking you there.”
That was the part I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Not the shoe.
Not my father laughing.
Not even my mother suggesting that my seven-month-pregnant wife should sit on the floor rather than inconvenience my sister.
It was the fact that none of it had shocked me enough.
That realization was ugly.
It meant some part of me had become accustomed to watching my family treat people like that.
