I stumble back over the playroom’s plastic chairs. I had pretended nothing was wrong, had imagined she was happy. Our son’s first birthday pictures show her flat expression and storebought birthday cake. She – it, zombies are it – drops his gnawed arm.
Trapped in the corner, I can’t run from reality anymore. I level the shotgun.
“Keep it simple, baby.”
I fire one barrel through my sobs and her head.
I save one barrel for me.