From TC 9:3 – “We’re Not Common” by Tara Kenway

Plunk.
Keeping her eyes fixed on me, my mother let the sugar drop into the cup. It sunk to the bottom with a small splash, a few bubbles gasping to the surface, and finally I understood.
That Sunday morning I had been cutting up soldiers for Violet, my daughter.
“One soldier, two soldiers, three soldiers,” we counted, my daughter giggling. “Frrrreeeee soldiers,” was accompanied by a little saliva shower for her piece of military bread.
The phone rang and I left Violet in her high chair to smear butter on her hand.
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