I felt a pressure on my waist for a fraction of a second – just four fingers pressing gently against my blouse. It is a sensitive spot. I quickly turned around with a tiny shriek, to find no one there. My 22-month-old was at my feet, playing with plastic cups and steel tumblers; my husband, who I assumed had touched me, was still busy working in another part of our quiet apartment. I was in the middle of cooking dinner. I stopped, walked out of the kitchen to check if anyone else was around – I definitely did not imagine being touched, and this was unlike any muscle spasm I had ever experienced. My mild annoyance was instantly replaced by curiosity tinged with fear. I returned to the hot pan that I had left behind with sizzling onions; checked if they were translucent enough to add the grated ginger. My rational brain had pushed back the dread.
Then my mouth blurted out, “Nice one, Dad.”
Wow, that’s other-worldly!
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I think so too.
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Always heartwarming when I see you on my wordpress feed. Big hugs! 💛 💚 💙
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Ditto, love. ❤
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A touching story
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Thank you, Derrick. I appreciate it. There will be at least another part to this story, if not two more. I hope to find some time to write them.
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Creepy! And interesting 😃
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Thank you 🙂 Yes, I was a little creeped out.
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