Chapter 3 - THE COWARD IN WHITE
The shattering of porcelain finally broke the man’s paralysis.
The father sat two chairs down, his white button-up shirt glaringly bright in the dim room.
He pushed his chair back, the wooden legs groaning against the floor.
He stood up, holding his hands out in front of him with his palms facing the ceiling.
His dark hair was neatly parted, but sweat was already pooling at his temples.
He looked at the elderly woman dripping with gravy, then turned his panicked eyes to his wife.
He took a step forward, his leather shoes crunching on a piece of broken ceramic.
The mother did not back away.
She stepped directly into his path, her chin raised, her eyes burning like blue gas flames.
She shifted the baby higher on her hip, freeing her right arm entirely.
The father opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips.
Before a single vowel could escape his throat, the mother’s arm snapped forward.
Her open palm collided with his left cheek.
The slap echoed through the dining room like a gunshot.
The force of the impact snapped his head violently to the right.
His neck cracked.
A bright, angry red handprint instantly blossomed across his pale skin, the outlines of her fingers stark and clear.
He stumbled sideways, his hip colliding heavily with the edge of the dining table.
Silverware clattered to the floor, ringing sharply against the wood.
He brought a trembling hand up to his cheek, his eyes wide with shock.
"You starved your own daughter!"
The mother’s voice was guttural, tearing through her vocal cords like broken glass.
She pointed a shaking finger down at the grey carpet.
The crushed peas and dried sweet potato were still mashed into the fibers.
"She thinks the floor is a plate."
The mother’s voice cracked, dropping into a terrifyingly quiet whisper.
"Because the people at the table are monsters."
The child logic hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
To a baby, food on a table meant love.
Food on the floor meant you belonged to the dirt.
The father stared at the carpet, his chest heaving under his crisp white shirt.
He couldn't look at his daughter’s tear-stained face.
He couldn't look at the yellow ruffles covered in dust.
He just stared at the crushed peas, the red mark on his face pulsing with every beat of his heart.
The mother scoffed, a wet, disgusted sound.
She turned her back on him entirely, refusing to give him another second of her grief.
She walked toward the back of the dining room, her boots leaving faint, dusty prints on the floor.
She needed to find the diaper bag.
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She needed to feed her child.
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