Cradle Thief

"A cradle thief," my mother called the man we'd see in shops, cafes, parks, even church, with "that poor girl" beside him. Hand in hand, they'd walk as if they didn't feel the scorch of people's stares. The day we saw him press his lips to hers, my mother blocked my eyes as if his mouth (I longed for my first kiss) against her mouth was smothering her cries. All week, I ran a fever that wouldn't break. "A cradle thief"—a voice I only half knew as my own surprised me in the dark, my sick-bed wet with shivers. "A cradle thief," I said again, as if the words could will my window broken, footprint on the sill.