Michael screams as I try to take the Mars bar from him:
“Gran said I could have it!”
” – Granma shoulda asked me before she gave you that. It’s candy day every Sunday, not every weekday. And you can’t take that with you in class. It’s not allowed.”
All the arguments – I run through them like a machine. A tired machine. And then I think about choking mum. And not inviting her for Christmas. Or both.
“Michael – come here. Right now!”
But off he runs, his 6 year old-feet tapping along the sweltering pavement. In the wrong direction.
“Emma – stay here. I’ll be right back.”
So I leave my oldest daughter, staring dumbfounded after her mother, chasing after her little brother. Oh, well, she’ll only have to stay there, at the bus stop and take care of herself and be the butt of jokes from the other children, who have some good reason for taking the bus, instead of our reason which is that Jon couldn’t fix the car “in a jiff”, like he said he would last night after I threw something at him. I don’t remember what it was, I think it was heavy enough, though, to make an impression.
“You hear me – stay there, Emma. – Michael!”…