I tucked the blanket tighter around his small shoulders and straightened up. Tomorrow was his birthday. The Ultraman figure he'd been begging for sat on his desk; I positioned it front and center—the first thing he'd see when he opened his eyes.
I imagined the joy spreading across his face come morning.
My hand reached out, almost absently, to right the family portrait lying face-down on the desk.
I turned it over.
The smile died on my lips.
My face had been scribbled out with thick, black marker.
Bitterness surged up my throat, tasting like bile. *He's just a child,* I told myself. *Being naughty. A prank. That's all.*
As I set the frame down, my elbow caught the edge of his diary. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
I bent to retrieve it. The notebook had fallen open.
The words swam into focus.
My blood turned to ice.
Row after row of dense, angry scrawls covered the page:
*Mommy, go die.*
