When my child fell off the play- house roof, the thud echoed in my bones—a cold vacuum filled me and in the quiet before we knew if she was okay my heart berated me, me—who neither put her up there nor pushed her off
“You were supposed to take care of her——YOU!”
And when I hear of another child hurt, it’s the same thud, the same cold echo, the same shame in my own heart on me, me— who neither set the blockade nor aimed the weapon nor put her in the jam- packed cell and locked it
Ingrid Anders is a wife, mother, and stepmother residing in Northern Virginia. Her most recent works have appeared in Eunoia Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and right here in Mothers Always Write. She hosts the Short Fiction Writing Workshop at the Washington DC Public Library and is a member of the Poets on the Fringe and the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, MD.