Who takes pictures of a three-year-old’s knees “for memories”?
A few days later, I saw him writing numbers in a small blue notebook.
“What are you writing?”
“Nothing.”
“Dad.”
He sighed.
“I’m watching Ben.”
“Watching what?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
I didn’t like that answer.
“If you’ve noticed something about my child, tell me.”
“When I’m sure, I will.”
That was the first time I got angry.
“You’re not a doctor.”
He said nothing.
Over the next two weeks, Ben sometimes seemed more restless after staying with Grandpa. But with a three-year-old, that
could mean anything. Sleepiness. Hunger. Being tired.
He was too young to explain clearly what had happened during the day, what hurt, or why he was uncomfortable.
Then
one afternoon, I came home from work almost an hour earlier than usual.
The moment I stepped inside, I smelled something strange coming from the kitchen.
Then I heard Ben crying. I ran in. And froze.
