I am not a good person
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
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I am not a good person, I thought. I watched as my daughter skipped happily up the stairs to school. She waved one more time at me before joining her friends outside. She wore her favorite jeans (The one with the hole in the knee!) with her strawberry red t-shirt, her hair in a ponytail that was already falling out.
I’ll have to redo it when she gets home, I thought briefly before realizing that I wasn’t going to be there when Heather got home. At least she’ll have her father there. I laughed bitterly thinking about my sad sack of a husband. Too depressed to see our marriage was falling apart and too uncaring to do anything about it if he knew. Maybe it will be the thing that kicks him in the pants. Or maybe not. He has his friends and parents to help him through it. Heather will be strong enough to get through this.
I sat there in the car for a few more seconds until the first bell rang prompting the kids to shuffle into the school. Finally, I shook my head of the cobwebs gathering there and drove away.
No, I am not a good person
Good grief. How grim was that? Sorry.
As usual, this is a work of fiction.