Broken glass

Thursday evening. In the kitchen.

I turn when I hear breaking glass. Erin stands at the sink holding half a drinking cup in her hand. She smirks.

"I just got really mad."

"You know a piece of this is going to end up in my foot, right?" I say, picking up chunks of glass from the counter.

"It broke cleanly in about four pieces," she says. "Maybe this time you'll be fine."


I sweep.

She sweeps.


Next morning. 6:17. I stride across the dark kitchen to flip the light switch.

Sharp intake of breath.

Saturday morning story

Saturday morning. Alice is helping me hang a shelf in the bedroom.

"Okay," I say, lining the drill up to the dot we penciled on the wall. "Don't pull the trigger until I say."

"Okay," she says. Her expression is serious.

I hold the drill in place. "Alright," I say. "Go for it."

The motor whirrs. Alice keeps the trigger depressed until I've pushed the bit into the wall and pulled it out again. She's done this before.

She brings her mouth to within two inches of the hole, purses her lips, and releases a sharp breath of air. A puff of dust escapes. All clean.

"You do that, Daddy," she says. "That's a Daddy thing."

"That's funny," I say. "That's exactly what I think every time I do that. Just like my daddy."