“And you ate the weird little one.”
“It tasted the same.”
“On pizza night, you eat my crust.”
“I like crust.”
“And you ate the weird little one.”
Tyler rolled his eyes so hard I almost admired the technique.
“You do not.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said crust was boring when Grandma brought that stuffed-crust pizza.”
Of all the things this child could remember.
Officer Bruce leaned against the doorframe.
“You do not.”
Tyler’s voice dropped.
“Your tummy makes noises when you say you’re full.”
I looked at him.
He was no longer performing for the police officer.
No crossed arms.
No dramatic scowl.
Just my seven-year-old son staring at the kitchen floor.
“Your tummy makes noises when you say you’re full.”
I realized he was listening to something I had worked very hard to convince myself he couldn’t hear.
***
For the last year, money had been tight.
