He holds the little block, green and translucent, in one hand, and for a moment, Marianne feels terribly dizzy. A swarm of moments from the past flies through her head. She sees her first child born, her daughter Lydia, feels the pain of the twenty hours of labor again, feels the tears of joy on her cheeks as she holds the tiny little body in her hands, and sees her leaving for college, not looking back, not ever coming back to Middleton. It all dangles in front of her, jewel-like and perfect and as fresh as if it were happening again.

The little boy tosses the block to the carpet and the joy and the pain of Lydia, all of her science fairs and softball games and first dates and prom nights and the heartbreak — it all vanishes. Lydia is gone from Marianne’s mind. She couldn’t tell anyone her daughter’s name if they asked.

All she feels is a sudden gaping hole inside. And fear, like cold water seeping all the way through her skin and into her bones.

She sinks back into the couch cushions, fighting the urge to run. She doesn’t know what she’s lost, and anyway, he’s just a little boy.

“Stop that,” she says, her voice shaking.

Jeremy grabs another block, as if he hasn’t heard her. “And this? This was your son.”

He tosses the small blue plastic block aside, and it bounces on the carpet next to the green one, and Marianne’s middle child is gone forever from her. A small piece of her heart goes with it, and she feels like crying, and she doesn’t know why.

“Stop it,” she says. “Stop it right now.”

“And this was your love for your husband,” he says, and takes a big chunk of blocks and pulls them apart, and the structure collapses a little more. Marianne tries to stand up now, and realizes she can’t. Something vital has been cut, like a string holding her up.

“This was everything your parents gave you. And this was that day you spent with your grandfather on the lake, where you looked up at the sky and wished every summer could be like that one.”

“Stop it,” Marianne says, weeping openly now, her voice high and childlike. “I don’t like this, I don’t like it.”

But he doesn’t stop. He takes the whole structure apart, bit by bit. Her hopes, her dreams, her memories, her fears. George’s funeral. Their wedding night. Her first kiss. Her fifth birthday. Everything.

Marianne stops crying after a while. Then she goes completely silent.

And then she’s not there at all anymore.

Jeremy looks at the fragments of his little sculpture, scattered all over the carpet. He looks around for the remote, and turns on the TV. Now he can watch cartoons.