He’d be glad to be done with the creche. It’d shave thirty minutes from his day once Matthew started school.
He was nearly back when he heard gunfire. A late-model car cruised slowly on the right. A trio of boys dashed in front. He slammed on the brakes—then realized his mistake. Another boy on the left, eye winking down the barrel of a gun.
He just needed to go, he just needed to go—but the piercing sting. He let go the wheel, looked down. Red on his shirt—why red? Red on his crisp white shirt. So much. He started to pant.
Not here. Not now. Who would pick up Matthew? Who would tell him? How would the boy know? How would he ever know how much he loved him? How impossibly big this love was.
How it was too big to even fit into this body any more.
Sadly, inspired by true events: http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/dad-shot-dead-after-dropping-child-at-cape-town-creche-20170622
As near as I can tell, a creche is a daycare, but I could have this wrong.