“When he lifted his dripping face, his son had stopped crying and was sitting, staring at him from across the room. The streetlight outside the window laid yellow light on the floor, cut into trapezoids by bare elm branches. The father sat down on the linoleum. He could see the shape of his son’s face, the pale dome of his forehead, the soft curve of his jowls, the curious dark almonds of his eyes. He felt his own fingernails digging crescents into his palms.”
You can read the rest of my short story “A Good Father” in the current issue of The New Quarterly.