“Most of that’s Amber.”
Noah was sitting at the kids’ table near the window.
He had frosting smeared across his cheek and a fork halfway to his mouth.
He froze mid-bite when he saw Marcus.
He slid off his chair and walked slowly across the carpet.
He froze mid-bite when he saw Marcus.
His sticky finger rose as he came closer.
The conversations around the table kept flowing, oblivious.
Then he stopped beside me, pointed straight at Marcus, and said it.
“Daddy, that’s the man with the caterpillars.”
Marcus’s wine glass paused halfway to his mouth.
Amber went very still beside him.
“Daddy, that’s the man with the caterpillars.”
“What did he say?” Lisa asked, leaning forward.
“Caterpillars,” my father repeated, amused. “Kids, huh?”
I knelt down so I was eye level with Noah.
The room felt smaller suddenly, the music too loud, the laughter too thin.
“Buddy,” I said gently, “what do you mean? What caterpillars?”
Noah tilted his head and looked back at Marcus, then at me, like the answer should be obvious.
“What caterpillars?”
Noah frowned like I was asking the strangest question in the world.
“The caterpillars he brought me.”
Nobody spoke.
“What?” I glanced at Marcus.
Noah smiled. “The gummy ones. They were green and yellow. He said they looked like fuzzy caterpillars.”
I stared at Noah.
When had Marcus brought Noah candy?
