The Bat
She came back holding a signed aluminum baseball bat.
Not to scare me.
Not to threaten.
To force a confession.
She shattered a vase just to show she would.
My daughter started crying in the sunroom.
I ran to her.
I picked her up and turned my back to the bat.
The first swing hit my shoulder.
I went down, still holding my child.
I couldn’t move my arm.
She raised the bat again.
This time, she aimed for my head.
Then the front door flew open.
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