Broken SplinterI hear them every night, the walls can never hold his temper. Each night I lay in bed comprehending the wife’s role to a powerful man and every morning she is at the kitchen sink, her spine slightly more bent, her left arm, a little limper from his fresh beatings. Today I stare anxiously between her and my report card. I am suddenly realizing how dark our kitchen is, how hot and slow the spinning overhead fan is, how strong the contrast of the dirty beige wallpaper and her black pots hanging on the window rail, blocking that morning sunshine is... I wanted to tell her. When she turns around and sees my report card the smile disappears from her kind face and the single sentence that escapes from lips makes me see the darkness he has given to her. “I'm calling your father,” she says and my heart splinters.
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