“Uh oh,” Leo whispered, his eyes going wide.
I opened my mouth to say, It’s okay, honey, let me get a napkin.
I never got the words out.
Robert moved with terrifying speed. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold. He reached across the corner of the table, his hand clamping onto Leo’s small bicep like a vice. He twisted my son’s arm—I heard the dry crack of the joint popping—and then, with his other hand, he slapped Leo across the face.
The sound was sickeningly loud. A wet, meaty slap that echoed off the high ceilings.
“Clumsy,” Robert spat, his voice ice-cold.
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