Just written

Earlier you scream at your baby. Scream. You wish you don’t remember why, but you do: he spills milk all over himself. Deliberately. Smiling at you as he does it. You physically restrain yourself from attacking him, from tearing his beautiful ivory skin with your fingernails. The tears light his eyes like happiness. He won’t remember this. He’ll be fine. Your name won’t be all over his therapy bills. He won’t hate-speak you in high school, college, stoned with some girlfriend or boyfriend a sympathetic shadow at his elbow. Not at all.