Chapter 2: What I Saw When Her Sleeve Slipped
Part 2 ⬇️
I looked at Greg the way I used to look at students who thought they were smarter than the exam.
"Greg," I said, "how much do you weigh?"
The table went quiet.
He blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"It's a simple question.
You corrected my daughter's eating at my table.
I'd like to know if you're qualified to do that."
My husband set down his fork.
Greg's smile came back — smaller this time.
"That's not really the same thing."
"No," I agreed.
"It isn't.
Because nobody sl@pped your hand."
Sally made a sound.
Not quite a word.
Something between a breath and a sob she didn't want us to hear.
That sound did something to me I cannot fully explain.
I slid my chair back, walked to the kitchen, and came back with the cake.
I cut Sally a slice.
A generous one.
I set it in front of her and I looked at Greg while I did it.
He didn't say a word.
But when I sat back down, I noticed something I hadn't seen before.
Sally's sleeve had ridden up when she reached for her fork.
I saw the mark on her wrist.
Faint.
Yellow at the edges.
Old enough to be weeks old.
My husband saw it too.
I know because he went very still.
Greg was watching us both now.
And for the first time since he walked into my house, he looked something I'd never seen on him before.
Afraid.
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What that mark meant — and what we did next — is not a short story.
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