When Dad Killed Mom
From p. 3
My mother is dead.
Dad killed her.
I was in the art room with my class, working on a drawing of the tree next to the old barn Mom made into her studio, the tree whose branches I look at from the couch where I lie sometimes when she is drawing or painting. Anybody who saw my drawing would think it was only a birch tree. Only I knew it was the one outside the window next to the old barn Mom made into her studio.
When the classroom door opened, I didn't look up. I was concentrating really hard, like Mom does when she sits on the stool at her drawing table. I wanted to finish the drawing so I could show it to her when I got home. She says I remind her of herself when she was twelve — serious and hardworking. She says she likes to see things through my eyes, that I see things as they are and that's what it takes to be an artist.