He’d been nine years old and forced the sharp edges into the soft wood. It was lying on the edge of the white cloth, her tooth. Ana had played with it for a while, pulled at it, it was loose, one of her upper front teeth. His fist had hit her cheek, mouth, and jaw. She left it on the kitchen table when she went over to the sink, a glass of cold water, one more, then out into the hall the pain stabbing with every step, her hip, her thigh, he had kicked her twice, the third time between the legs. He’d never hit her before. It had always been there on the few occasions that they’d run into each other in recent years, the hate, the aggression, but Gabriel had always been beside him and she’d never been frightened, he had never exploded in the same way when Gabriel was there to balance, to neutralize. She stopped. Her hand on the brown wallpaper. She had decided so long ago. She just hadn’t understood it then. She had waited for them in a room in the social services office and gradually become a part of the sickness.
