8
The other boy’s father was not a tall man, but he was built like a refrigerator. He stood in the doorway, block
ing out the light.
His gaze fell on Patrick, hiding behind me. “Is this the little brat who hurt my son?”
I pushed Patrick behind the teacher and whispered, “Call the police.”
In that moment, I was profoundly grateful for the self-defense classes I’d taken after a run-in with a creep boss years ago. It was the only thing that allowed me to hold my own until the cops arrived.
handed over all the security footage of the nanny stealing from us to the police.
She was held for theft, and I paid a fine to settle the matter of the fight between Patrick and the other boy.
Patrick was silent the entire car ride home. That evening, as I served him a bowl of noodle soup, he burs
nto tears and started apologizing.
grabbed a tissue and wiped his face, a little exasperated. “What are you crying for? If your dad saw this, he I think I was bullying you.”
le scrambled onto his chair, cupped my face in his small hands, his own face a mess of tears and snot. “C
es it hurt? Let me blow on it for you.”
lifted him down and patted his back gently. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Patrick, I want to tell you something. You did a great job today.”
When people bully you, you can fight back, or you can tell someone. If your dad had been here today, h would have done the exact same thing I did.”
I just want you to know that no matter what happens, your dad and I will always be your shield. Do you und
erstand?”
He started crying again.
How can one small child produce so many tears? Buddy was so much better; at least his furry shoulder was good for crying on.
I sighed, patting his back. “Okay, sweetie. How about we eat first?”
After dinner, Patrick played with his blocks for a while before he started to get sleepy. I got him undressed and into the tub, a routine I now had down to a science. Scrubbing him was as smooth and practiced as washing a carrot.
He let me dress him in a fresh pair of pajamas. Buddy hopped onto the bed, tail wagging, circling him.
Ever since we moved in, Buddy had stopped sleeping with me, preferring to stick to Patrick like glue. I was a
little sad about it, but mostly, I was glad Patrick had the company.
He wasn’t mentally unstable. He was just lonely. All he ever wanted was for his dad to be around more.
