Recounting Events

Peter and Laura had said nothing when I came into the house, choosing only to stare at me or rather to peruse my entire self as if looking for hurt on my body.

Their eyes had been like lasers, scrutinizing every inch of me as if they could see through my skin to the very core of my being.

I had offered them a tentative greeting and shifted uneasily on my feet, feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Finally, Laura had broken the silence.

“Go and freshen up, and take dinner. We can talk later.”

Relief had flooded through me, though I knew it was only temporary.

I had taken my time in the bath, letting the hot water soothe my nerves and wash away the grime and stress of the day. Each minute spent under the warm spray was another minute delaying the inevitable scolding.

I had lingered even longer at dinner, chewing each bite slowly and deliberately, trying to stretch the meal as far as I could. But eventually, the plate was empty, and I could no longer delay.

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