The boy yanked free of Faith's grip and ran to the pile of discarded things. He stomped down on the folded baby clothes, grinding his shoe back and forth.
Then he crouched, reached into a cardboard box, and pulled out a small carved wooden horse.
Five years ago, Tony had carved it for me by hand, right after he was discharged from the hospital. He'd sat on the balcony with bandages still wrapped thick around his head, a carving knife turning in his fingers. Wood shavings had dusted his lap, his arms, his shoulders.
He'd placed the finished horse in my palm and told me that someday he'd carve an entire set of wooden toys for our children.
I'd kept that wooden carving in the glass cabinet in the nursery all this time.
The boy picked up the rocking horse and tossed it in his hands.
"So ugly!"
He hurled it at the floor with all his strength.
The rocking horse hit the hard marble and shattered instantly, splintering into pieces.
Still not satisfied, the boy walked over to the largest fragment and stomped on it.
Wood chips flew everywhere.
I rushed forward, grabbed the boy by the shoulders, and pulled him away.
"What are you doing?!"