I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-7
Morning Confrontation
Toby left early. Just Marianne and I. Entering the kitchen, I found her scouring the countertop with fierce, wide strokes. It already gleamed. The coffee machine whirred. Thirty seconds. Lights shifted red to green. "Last night," I began, voice alien, "that bottle warmer." Her scrubbing ceased. The cloth pressed flat. "I’m sorry," she stated, back still turned. "It wasn’t an accident," I countered, the coffee cup warming my palm. "It was dangerous." She pivoted.
Her customary softness vanished. Eyes locked on mine. "Dangerous?" Her voice climbed slightly. "You think I’d hurt him?" She didn't wait. "Look at me." She stepped closer. "*Look* at me." Her right hand clutched the damp cloth. Water dripped from her wrist onto the floor. Silence. Only the refrigerator hummed.
Breaking Point
"Then tell me!" My voice shattered, each word torn ragged. Something surged hot in my chest. "Why is it every time I reach for him, you’re already holding him? Why, when it’s time to feed him, your bottle is ready? Why does your door open first at night? Why do you *schedule* his vaccinations and just *inform* me?" The torrent wouldn’t stop.
Tears streamed, salt on my tongue. "I’m not the hired help. I’m his *mother*." I gasped for air, hands trembling. Marianne stood rigid, the cloth still clenched. Her expression shifted—not anger, but something else. Her eyes widened slightly, taking in my tears, my shaking. Five silent seconds. Her lips parted, closed. A swallow. Her fingers uncurled. The cloth dropped silently onto the counter. Her shoulders slumped. Head lowered. She turned, walked down the hall to her room. The lock clicked softly. Snap. Utter silence reclaimed the house.
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Toby left early. Just Marianne and I. Entering the kitchen, I found her scouring the countertop with fierce, wide strokes. It already gleamed. The coffee machine whirred. Thirty seconds. Lights shifted red to green. "Last night," I began, voice alien, "that bottle warmer." Her scrubbing ceased. The cloth pressed flat. "I’m sorry," she stated, back still turned. "It wasn’t an accident," I countered, the coffee cup warming my palm. "It was dangerous." She pivoted.
Her customary softness vanished. Eyes locked on mine. "Dangerous?" Her voice climbed slightly. "You think I’d hurt him?" She didn't wait. "Look at me." She stepped closer. "*Look* at me." Her right hand clutched the damp cloth. Water dripped from her wrist onto the floor. Silence. Only the refrigerator hummed.
Breaking Point
"Then tell me!" My voice shattered, each word torn ragged. Something surged hot in my chest. "Why is it every time I reach for him, you’re already holding him? Why, when it’s time to feed him, your bottle is ready? Why does your door open first at night? Why do you *schedule* his vaccinations and just *inform* me?" The torrent wouldn’t stop.
Tears streamed, salt on my tongue. "I’m not the hired help. I’m his *mother*." I gasped for air, hands trembling. Marianne stood rigid, the cloth still clenched. Her expression shifted—not anger, but something else. Her eyes widened slightly, taking in my tears, my shaking. Five silent seconds. Her lips parted, closed. A swallow. Her fingers uncurled. The cloth dropped silently onto the counter. Her shoulders slumped. Head lowered. She turned, walked down the hall to her room. The lock clicked softly. Snap. Utter silence reclaimed the house.
NEXT >>