With her ears, she took inventory of his doings: chair legs dragged across the floor,
the plaintive squeak of the cane seat when he sat, the clinking of spoon against plate,
the flutter of newspaper pages flipped, the slurping of water.
And as her heart pounded, her mind wondered what excuse he would use that night to pounce on her.
There was always something, some minor thing that would infuriate him,
because no matter what she did to please him, no matter how thoroughly she submitted to his wants and demands, it wasn't enough.
She could not give him his son back. In this most essential way, she had failed him;
seven times she had failed him and now she was nothing but a burden to him.
She could see it in the way he looked at her, when he looked at her. She was a burden to him.
“What's going to happen?” she asked him now. Rasheed shot her a sidelong glance.
He made a sound between a sigh and a groan, dropped his legs from the table, and turned off the radio.
He took it upstairs to his room. He closed the door.
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