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.