This story is true.
The father sat there, the only male in the room, surrounded by mothers. His daughter's first day of preschool was today, and his wife was out of town, so he was the one who had to listen to the teacher go on and on and on.
Suddenly, a kid's high pitched scream broke through the teacher's speech. Everyone turned in time to see children running through the hallway, desperate to get away from something or someone. The man opened the door, pushed past the fleeing kids, and looked in a tiny window to the classroom everyone was running from. He saw his daughter, red in the face and tears dripping from her cheek, pick up a bucket and throw it at the teacher, extremely hard. The bucket found its mark, and hit the teacher square in the chest.
The daughter in the story is me, when I was three years old. I've always been really strong, so the teacher probably got a bruise, not that I'm proud of it. I apparently was very, very mad that day. When she came home, my mom straightened it out with the teacher, and I didn't get in trouble.
