Your sons are spoiled rotten. Their blond heads are matted with tears, running and dribbling over their eyelashes to come and rest in the dimples on their cheeks. Each time you unwrap a shiny new plastic toy, all you will be rewarded with is gnashing teeth and flailing limbs, kicking, beating, biting, filling the air with electricity and panic. How dare you let me into your house? Each time they call you, "Mommy, Mommy!," your jaw clenches in fear, screaming back at them. You look at me apologetically, gently nudging them from the room. The finger paint coats us thinly, in my nose, my mouth, my eyes. They have become smudges in my eyes, little dark whorls on the lawn. Your husband tries to keep them out of the laundry chute.
"Great, I'll be back Saturday, Mrs. ______"
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