With an evil grin, I eyed the list I had created out of Daddy's worksheets and my wax crayons. The writing was messy and jumbled but I could still read what it said.

Language.

With a shaky hand, I used my crayon to draw a tiny little tick next to the word.

I had broken that rule first thing this morning. Joel had asked me to wash up my plate. I had dropped it and cut my finger on it. I had cried. Daddy had rinsed it, cleaned it and put a plaster on it and kissed it.

I had then said that the plate was a bitch.

That made...