I pack her off to her preschool in the morning, wrapping up the morning chores before jumping in the car for office. In the evening, I come back and see her plonked on the couch, waiting, in front of the blaring TV. She says, she was waiting for me. And I feel it twist inside me, again. It’s a familiar blade now – it’s been in my heart ever since I joined work. A thin switchblade, with a carved handle, it presses against my heart, under my left breast. And it makes a cut, each time she says those words.
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