Chapter 6 - Dad Called the Glass “Reflex”
My father’s explanation for throwing the glass was:
“Reflex.”
The detective apparently asked:
“You reflexively picked up a glass and threw it?”
Dad did not enjoy the phrasing.
The video showed the sequence clearly.
I pulled my mother’s hand from my shoulder.
Said:
“She is my family. You aren’t.”
Opened the door.
Dad stood.
Picked up the glass.
Threw it.
There were almost three full seconds between standing and release.
Enough time for Daniel to shout.
Enough time to stop.
He didn’t.
The glass missed my head by inches.
More importantly, Rosie was in my arms.
Dad insisted he aimed at the wall.
Nobody believed that was reassuring.
Police investigated that incident separately.
The birthday party had produced three possible criminal matters:
What Bethany did to Rosie.
My punch.
My father’s glass.
I hated that.
I wanted a clean morality play.
Bad family.
Good father.
Reality was uglier.
Bethany harmed a child.
Dad threw an object toward a man holding that child.
And I hit someone in front of my daughter.
Rosie’s therapist later told me:
“You can protect her and still take responsibility for the part you wish you handled differently.”
So I did.
I told Rosie:
“When Daddy found you hurt, Daddy got very angry.”
She nodded.
“I hit Aunt Bethany.”
Another nod.
“I should have taken you and left instead.”
“But she hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t you hit her?”
There it was.
The question every revenge story avoids.
“Because keeping you safe was my job.”
I touched her hand.
“Hitting Aunt Bethany did not make you safer.”
Rosie thought about it.
“Grandpa throwed the cup.”
“Yes.”
“That was bad too.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody was bad?”
I almost laughed.
“Everybody made choices.”
“Even me?”
“No.”
She looked suspicious.
“You hid.”
“That was a good choice.”
Rosie smiled slightly.
May you like
“I fit behind the toilet.”
It broke my heart and relieved me at the same time.
