This is a short story written by my daughter just this year. As a word of explanation, she is an adult but was able to take the voice of a child, thus the lack of capitalization and punctuation. I offer this explanation only because you don't know her or me really (this is NOT autobiographical).
it was raining outside and since you were downstairs watching your soap opera i went into your room. i lay on your unmade bed and ran my hand across the sheets, which must have been clean once. i stared at the carpet for a long time. i looked at your old dresser, the mirror was cracked. and on the dresser there was a hairbrush full of your blonde hair, a picture of me and a picture of daddy, and a glass angel that your mama gave you and she said you were her angel.
you were going to the grocery store and i wanted to come with you. i wanted to watch you pick up apples and put them back if they were bruised because you knew i wouldn't eat them. i wanted to hear the tone of your voice when you said hello to dorothy who lives up the street; when i heard it i would know you were my mother and i was safe. i wanted to sit in the cart and have you push me up and down the aisles and i would look forward to the day when i would be big enough to push the cart.
i wanted to come with but you said no because you said i was too big to sit in the cart and six is not old enough to know when to keep your mouth shut and would i please stop asking so many damn questions
i looked at you (i didn't cry because you would hit me if i cried) and i knew you didn't care if i had to eat bruised apples and you wouldn't say hello to dorothy and you wouldn't understand the importance of being big enough to push the cart
when you came home i think you didn't understand why your glass angel was shattered in a million pieces all over you and daddy's bed