Murder

I realize what day it is as soon as I wake up. I dread it already.

My eyes are still closed shut but I feel the morning light burning white through my eyelids. I’m usually awake at this hour, but sleep has only slightly pulled its soft wings apart. I can still feel their soft load weighing down on me, holding me tight against the bed like a soft push, a second gravity.

The kids will be up soon. Maybe they are awake already. How long before they realize? Before they come crashing into my room? I’d rather they find out on their own, my surprise will be easier to fake that way. Maybe they won’t even notice.

Please, make it last a little longer. The sheets throw back my sleep-warmth at me, pack me in tight like the silken cocoon of some exotic caterpillar. Maybe I will emerge with wings, fly away to some inconsequential place.

The day ahead keeps nagging at me from the back of my brain. The long drive to their father’s new place. The kids look forward to seeing him again. I’m going to have to pretend to be mildly happy. I sense a vague stirring of nausea in the pit of my stomach.

First I’ll have to deal with the kids this morning, about what I did. I had to do it on the same day so the kids know what happened, so the excitement of seeing their father again will make them forget about it.

Finally, I hear it: the eager thump! thump! thump! of the kids running up the stairs. Both of them. I know from the irregular cadence.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

My bedroom door bursts open. My eyes open to full blinding daylight.

The split second of calm before the storm. The time it takes them to cross the space of floor between the door and my bed. How I revel in the delicate peace of that moment.

Then comes the crash. The flood of cold air rushing under the sheets, goosebumps cover my legs. Tommy hugs both my thighs with his little arms, buried in the fleeting warmth. Alice is already sitting on my stomach, staring at me wide-eyed. Is it horror or excitement?

“MOMMY!”

Either she’s about to tell me today is the day she sees her father again, or—

“The dog is dead!”

I screw up my face in an expression of concerned surprise.

“The dog is dead?!”

Couldn’t have fooled an adult, but I think she buys it.

Yes, the dog is dead. I killed it. I killed it because I was sick of having to walk it and clean it and feed it. I killed it because their father bought it for them and I had to take care of it. I poisoned its food last night so we would find it dead this morning, no questions asked. Or not too many, anyhow. I hope they’re not too traumatized.

I should’ve killed their father instead.