His four-year-old body lay limp in the hospital wing, the phone on the side table.
So what if it was a brand new, expensive phone? Was it more precious than his little hands? So what if he had scratched it?
I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I had done this to my son. I had beaten him so bad; he ended up in the hospital.
For what? A fucking phone? How thick could I be?
I reached out to grab it and smash it into the wall, only to read what he had scratched on it, “Love you, papa!”
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