*The following story was inspired by actual events.

Slowly I turned, step by step, keeping my back carefully turned toward the doorway.

I didn’t want my daughters to see what I’d done.

It broke my heart, but I had to do it. It was getting old and stiff; I had to get rid of it. I know my little girls had gotten attached, but nothing lasts forever. It was time to say goodbye. I couldn’t help it; I stared into his cold, lifeless eyes one last time.

I heard my eldest daughter’s chair drag across the floor as she pushed herself away from the dining room table. “I’m all done, mommy!” I heard her call to my wife. I had to act quickly, before she came into the kitchen and screamed. Panicking, I thrust it into a trash bag, closed it quickly, flung it over my shoulder and headed stealthily down the stairs into the basement.

Casting furtive glances over my shoulder, I opened the door to our attached garage, and stuffed it into a waiting garbage can. Breathing heavily, I brought the lid down, covering the evidence. I wish something could so easily cover the guilt spread across my face and in my heart.

I sadly climbed back upstairs, where my wife’s fearful eyes met mine.

“Did you dispose of … the body?” she whispered.

“Yes,” I whispered back. “The gingerbread man cake is … gone.”