The Shard

‘No, Missy!’ A high-pitched screech that echoes with fear makes Janie’s voice sound weird, like it’s strangled in the throat.

Missy is a busy, inquisitive three-year-old. She’s crawling towards a shard of glass, slightly beyond her reach. It’s sharp, glistening in the morning sunlight that fills the kitchen space.

Janie had left her daughter alone, just for a minute, to use the toilet. Mid-stream, she heard the smash, and wriggled and squirmed in a pointless attempt to hurry the process along. She quickly, but thoroughly, washed her hands and rushed back to her girl.

‘No!’ Janie says again. She bends forward and slaps the glass from Missy’s hand, then scoops her up as she begins to howl. ‘Missy, you must never touch broken glass. Dangerous. You could get a nasty cut.’

Missy sobs.

Janie’s gut swirls; a combination of terror and guilt crashes about within. Her face is flushed red, and her armpits are damp. She hugs her daughter, gives her a reassuring squeeze.

‘Sorry, baby girl. Mummy didn’t mean to scare you with her shouty voice. I was worried you’d cut your hand. I know you’re frightened, but I’ve got you now.’

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash