Arnold might be too tall for trick or treating, but Mrs. Jones should have kept her opinions to herself. Arnold couldn’t handle criticism.
Every step was careful. Every crunch, a cringe. My son grimaced each time, as if he felt the pain he inflicted on these dry, autumn leaves.
Thick jam, thin peanut butter. No crust. Cut diagonally. Halves cannot touch. Yellow plate only. “Thank you, mommy. Love you.” All worth it.
Mom yanked the wire bristles of the dog brush through my hair. “What’dja learn?” “No climbing.” “Be a punkin’ & get ready for your enema.”
The six-year-old sits outside the principal’s door. His teacher hadn’t liked what he’d said. But daddy never minded; daddy usually laughed.
She’s frightened by the strange badges and unknown hierarchies. Sobs silently in the toilets at lunchtime. “How was school?” “Fine, Mummy.”