Chapter 1 - Scream for Daddy
"SCREAM FOR DADDY," Celia said, and threw the pot.
I heard my daughter before I saw her. It was a sound no father should have to recognize: a child's voice breaking because she was hurt and frightened at the same time.
I ran into the kitchen and nearly slipped. Orange broth spread across the white tile. My seven-year-old, Wren, stood shaking beside the island, trying to pull a soaked sweater away from her chest. My wife, Celia, still held the empty white pot.
"She spilled it," Celia said immediately.
"She threw it," Rose answered.
Our twenty-four-year-old nanny had reached Wren first. Rose was guiding her toward the sink, speaking steadily while Wren sobbed. My mother, Elaine, sat at the breakfast table with her teacup suspended in one hand. She looked at the newspaper instead of my daughter.
"Mark, she's making a scene," Celia said. "I was trying to serve lunch."
"Wren." I crouched where she could see me. "Look at me, sweetheart. I'm here."
"Don't make me say it," she whispered.
"Say what?"
Celia set the pot down too hard. "She gets dramatic when Rose is around."
Rose didn't look up. "Mark, please get her medical help. I've cooled the area with running water. Her clothes are sticking in places. Don't pull them."
My mother finally spoke. "There's no reason to involve strangers."
I stared at her. "She's hurt."
Wren held my wrist with two fingers, as if even a full grip might hurt. "Daddy, I didn't spill anything."
"I believe you."
I called the clinic, then grabbed the car keys. Celia stepped into the doorway, blocking us.
"You'd take her word over mine?"
"Move."
For the first time, my wife obeyed.
May you like
As I carried Wren into the hall, she pressed her mouth to my ear. "Daddy, she told me if I cried, you'd send me away."
I stopped walking. Behind us, Celia quietly closed the kitchen door.
