I hate her. I know I’m supposed to love her, but I just don’t. I can’t. As we sit in the living room, I watch the three-year-old silently become transfixed on the candle I had lit a few moments ago.

I will wait.

Her finger draws closer to the tiny, dancing flame of the candle. Closer. I imagine the relaxing calmness of it turn angry, climbing up her hand, then her wrist, arm, and entire body. The skin bubbling, melting, turning to ash. A blood-curdling scream, then silence.

The heat once again causes her to flinch and pull her finger away. As she begins to cry, I draw her into my arms to comfort her. I rub her back, trying not to dig my fingers in too hard, so I wouldn’t hurt her. I am tempted.

Someday. 

I will wait.