The Family Tree

Olive wiggles her toes and coos, watching her father wave the bottle.

"How plump our little pimento has become," he sings.

A groan comes down the corridor, upsetting Olive.

It comes again, heavier. He expects she'll need changing.

"Just a falling branch," he whispers, brushing Olive's hair. "Rotten. Couldn't support its fruit anymore."

She quiets.

"But we're safe now, sweetie."

He pours himself another glass from the bottle.

"We're safe."

Olive quiets, too.