“Mommy forgot to warn the new babysitter about the basement. Chloe teetered on the top step, chubby hands reaching up to clutch both railings, her arms shaking so much she could barely hang on. Her legs shook, too, the Scooby Doo heads on her slippers bobbing. Even her breath shook, puffing like she´d been running.”
‘You…,’ she says, 'killed a man?’ The apprehensive look. I know it well-that moment when they’re certain they’ve misheard. Or that I mean it in a metaphorical way. I broke a man’s heart. Which is true. A bullet does break a heart. Irrevocably, it seems.
“So I was right, wasn’t I? It’s still you, even in wolf form.” He grunted. “No sudden uncontrollable urges to go kill something?” He rolled his eyes. “Hey, you’re the one who was worried.” I paused. “And I don’t smell like dinner, right?” I got a real look for that one. “Just covering all the bases.”
How could a parent blame her child for not overcoming a mental illness? It was like pushing a reluctant student to get a passing grade. It was like blaming one with a learning disorder for not getting As.