I’ve had a few ups and downs lately, like many of us do, and it’s meant I haven’t had much time for writing. But gradually, I’ve started again. And it’s felt good. This piece is short and sweet but, as many of you know, I’ve always had a passion for flash fiction.
My darling Clarissa,
I watched you yesterday – watched you pick up the threadbare teddy, lovingly caressing its coarse chest.
‘I must go and find Sarah. Then we can have a tea party,’ you cried, eagerly scrambling to your feet.
Then you saw me. Your brow wrinkled and your shoulders started to shake. ‘Who are you?’ you demanded, your hands folding into fists.
I stared back at you, the tears already falling.
‘I don’t know you. You shouldn’t be here. Daddy! Help!’ with each word, your voice grew.
The punch caught me on the arm. I stood there, in the doorway to our bedroom, our bedroom of fifty-nine years and did nothing. I knew I’d bruise. I always did.
Then I grabbed you. Tight. For an instant, you knew me and your face softened. Your eyes danced with that look. Love.
Then it was gone and the hardness and hatred was back. I felt the warmth of your spittle as it oozed down my face. My arms unlocked from yours and you pushed past me, a girlish giggle escaping from your lips.
I wonder if I can go through it again. Day after day. Only each day it worsens. But I will. For you, my love, for you.
For better, for worse,
Yours Frederick
***
Esther Chilton 
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