The Fight She Gets

         The wind gushed in the open window, the curtains fluttering about, the chill of December wind, these were Jon's clues that something was terribly wrong. He looked through the darkness to his daughter's bed, horrified to see it empty, the blankets tossed aside like all his hopes of a happily ever after.

         She's done it, he thought. She's taken her from me. His heart pressed against his throat at the realization, the breath evaporated from his lungs. He stumbled backward and fell against the wall. It temporarily took the place of a crutch, filling the void where his daughter once stood, holding him upright, keeping him alive.

         Divorce is messy, three in ten years had taught him that much. But property division shouldn't, couldn't include the living off-spring of what once passed for wedded bliss. But now it did, and where the law had failed him, where the law had failed his daughter, he would now have to make right on his own.

         Jon pushed himself from the safety of the wall behind him and went to his bedroom where he pulled a muted silver Browning M-1911 pistol from the top shelf of his closet.

         If it's a fight she wants, then it's a fight she'll get.