The Doll

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It sat on the top shelf behind the jars of canned pickles. I had only seen Mommy play with her doll twice. Both times it was after a fight with Daddy. Mommy said it made her feel better. I was alright with that: playing with my dolls made me feel better too.

Peeping between the banister rungs, I saw Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. She sat there calmly stroking the doll’s head. It wasn’t a very attractive doll. Mom said it was old: she had gotten it when she and Dad first began dating. It was funny: she had even named the doll after Dad.

“That’s right, Cleo.” Mom whispered holding the doll close to her lips. “That’s right. Just a night with the boys.” It was strange. Mom was holding the doll awfully tight. Her hands had stopped stroking it and were both grasped around the doll’s neck. “I forgive you, Cleo. We won’t have to talk about that problem anymore.”

With a quick twist of her hands, Mom stood and put her doll back. She quietly shut the pantry door.

“I can’t wait for Dad to come back home,” I thought running back to my room.

First writing prompt for Jeremy’s Daily Challenge. (100-200 word requirement.)

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