I was chopping vegetables when my four-year-old daughter

has opened under my feet.

Because Diane is not some stranger hiding in an alley.

She is in my living room.

She knows where Emma sleeps.

She knows Andrew’s weak places.

She knows how to cry without tears.

My phone vibrates again.

This time Diane’s name appears.

I don’t answer.

The buzzing stops.

Then a message arrives from her.

Melissa, you are being dramatic.continue reading …