Chapter 1 - The Backyard Incident
Four-year-old Evan reached for one piece of grilled chicken.
It was a harmless gesture.
A hungry child at a family barbecue.
Diane snatched the plate away.
Then she slapped him.
Hard.
The sharp crack echoed over the sound of the sizzling grill.
“Don’t steal my food!”
Several relatives laughed.
My husband’s family always laughed when Diane was cruel.
They called it "her fiery personality."
They called it "just a joke."
Evan ran toward me, sobbing.
His tiny hand clutched his red, stinging cheek.
“Mom, I’m so hungry!”
My expression changed.
The warm, polite smile I had practiced for five years of marriage vanished.
I took his trembling hand and headed for the gate.
Behind us, Diane laughed loudly, making sure I could hear.
“Oh, come on, Laura! I’m just kidding! Don't be so sensitive!”
I stopped.
Turned.
Walked back.
Every eye in the backyard was on me.
The silence was heavy.
I stepped right up to Diane.
And I swung.
The slap knocked Diane straight onto the grass.
The plate flew from her hands.
Greasy grilled chicken scattered everywhere, ruining her expensive designer dress.
The family gasped in unison.
“You hit my child and call that a joke?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.
Diane held her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and fury.
Then I said something that silenced the entire backyard.
“Enjoy it. That’s the last piece of meat you’ll ever eat in your life.”
I turned my back on her and walked out with my son.
Everyone thought it was a threat.
A dramatic, empty curse from an angry mother.
It wasn't.
It was a clinical observation.
Because when Diane had tilted her head back to laugh at my crying son.
I saw it.
Right on her collarbone.
May you like
A perfect, angry red bullseye rash.
The signature bite of a Lone Star tick.
