09-05-2019, 04:32 PM
It is almost peaceful.
They do not demand much of him.
The child still hates him, despite her mother’s best efforts to teach her how to swallow down all of that vicious anger. He wonders if this is for the best or if the child should be allowed to purge all of it now, while she’s young. Maybe she shouldn’t bury it so that it can rise up and wrap its fury around her throat when she least expects it.
But he does not know how to parent and feels no overwhelming urge to try and tell Adna how to mother a child who is more like her than she is like him.
There is some delicate equilibrium. A balance so fragile that the idea of stepping out of line terrifies him, as if convinced that it might shatter. What good is a glass foundation, he wonders, but never lends a voice to.
He is not especially vigilant. Or even all that observant, really. But it would be hard not to notice the tears that gather heavy in her eyes. He blinks his surprise. She’s gone, she says, and something dark leaps up into his throat. It is not panic, necessarily, but some distant relative.
He drags in a long breath, considers all of the things that could have gone wrong. She is young, their daughter, certainly too young to strike out on her own. But he does not feed into her panic, refuses to further distress her. “Maybe she’s just gone to play with the other children. Or the playground, perhaps.” Unlikely, he knows, considering how much she despises the other children. But he says it in the hopes of smoothing the frayed edges of her nerves just enough.
They do not demand much of him.
The child still hates him, despite her mother’s best efforts to teach her how to swallow down all of that vicious anger. He wonders if this is for the best or if the child should be allowed to purge all of it now, while she’s young. Maybe she shouldn’t bury it so that it can rise up and wrap its fury around her throat when she least expects it.
But he does not know how to parent and feels no overwhelming urge to try and tell Adna how to mother a child who is more like her than she is like him.
There is some delicate equilibrium. A balance so fragile that the idea of stepping out of line terrifies him, as if convinced that it might shatter. What good is a glass foundation, he wonders, but never lends a voice to.
He is not especially vigilant. Or even all that observant, really. But it would be hard not to notice the tears that gather heavy in her eyes. He blinks his surprise. She’s gone, she says, and something dark leaps up into his throat. It is not panic, necessarily, but some distant relative.
He drags in a long breath, considers all of the things that could have gone wrong. She is young, their daughter, certainly too young to strike out on her own. But he does not feed into her panic, refuses to further distress her. “Maybe she’s just gone to play with the other children. Or the playground, perhaps.” Unlikely, he knows, considering how much she despises the other children. But he says it in the hopes of smoothing the frayed edges of her nerves just enough.