Milk Murderer

When I reached the kitchen, it was too late. Our little culprit was grieving and the victim’s pale innards were spilling out onto the kitchen floor. I know she didn’t mean to do it. And really it is my fault. I should have watched her, guided her. This wouldn’t have happened.

I did try to ignore it in the beginning. She said that these incidents were accidents and assured me not to worry, but it never felt right. Every time she approached me apologizing I couldn’t bear to face the reality of the situation.

But when it happened this time. The heart-wrenching scream that escaped from her lungs! You could tell it was an accident, her heart wasn’t in it. Our daughter hasn’t relapsed.

It was hard enough when the headlines read Cereal Killer. At least that was true. I used to see the joy in her eyes when she threw Fruit Loops across the room. But now you think she’s moved on to being a Milk Murderer?

I’d like to see you pour a glass of milk from a gallon jug with a five year old’s hands and dexterity.

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