The Last Cherry In My Fridge

Summary

Ever since my father-in-law moved into my house, I’ve been afraid to even open my own refrigerator.

He had taped a note onto the crisper drawer where the Bing cherries were kept: Bought by Dad. For daughter only. Others, buy your own.

Until last week, when my four-year-old son, Max, reached in and took one.

My father-in-law slapped the back of his tiny hand so hard the cherry flew out of his grip and rolled across the hardwood floor.

"Just like your father," he sneered. "Always looking for a free handout."