Kate was a mountain stream in early summer. She made her own way always. Usually it was refreshing.

Her temper was the stuff of myth, her tenderness of legend. She’d throw her dolls across the room with a horrifying shriek then beg for every BandAid in the house to mend their imagined wounds.

Thurman loved Kate with all that he had. He knew he was being played.

He also didn’t care.

thump. thump. Thump. Kate stomped down the stairs.

Thurman took a deep breath and closed his eyes, summoned resignation to the day:

 

This moment, this body, this home.

They are not mine.

They belong to all but me.

 

That really helps, doesn’t it. I’m so helpful said Phyllis.

Thurman felt a whimper of protest, but armor closed around it.

His coffee a puddle of lukewarm grounds. He poured it down his throat and set the mug on the counter with a hard clink as his daughter rounded the corner.

“Well, g’mornin’ Sweetie! And how are you today!?” Thurman beamed.