That Tuesday afternoon, I arrived at Sarah’s suburban home carrying a yellow gift bag with a teddy bear for my future grandson. She was eight months pregnant, and I had come to help assemble the crib, but something felt wrong the moment she opened the door. Her skin was clammy, her movements were cautious, and she kept glancing toward the living room whenever explosions from Derek’s video game filled the house.
“Did you ask him about the crib? I can put it together today.”How-To,
“He’s busy, Dad. He’s in a tournament. It’s important.”
My thirty year old son in law was stretched across the sectional, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and snack wrappers. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he shouted toward Sarah.
“Get me a Mountain Dew. The red one. Now!”
Sarah immediately headed for the kitchen despite her swollen ankles and obvious discomfort. I followed, offering to reach something from an upper cabinet, and that was when she hurriedly pulled down her sleeve, though not fast enough. Concealer had rubbed away from her upper arm, revealing several fading marks that looked disturbingly like fingerprints.
“Sarah, what happened?”
“Nothing. I bumped into the pantry door. You know how clumsy I am.”
