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Since Michael was away and I didn’t know Patrick’s grandparents well, I decided to take Patrick to my paren- ts’ house for the holidays.
On Christmas morning, as we were getting ready to leave, Patrick meticulously filled the cats’ food and wat- er bowls.
I had to laugh. “Patrick, honey, we’re only going to be gone for one day.”
After living with me for half a year, Patrick had blossomed. He’d become much more outgoing and had lear ned the art of sweet-talking.
He had my mother wrapped around his little finger. She was so smitten she looked ready to stuff her entire pension into his Christmas card.
“The first time I met this child, he was so timid,” my mom mused. “And I’d heard… rumors. That he had issu
es.”
‘But look at him now. He’s just a wonderful little boy.”
A smile touched my lips as I watched Patrick chase Buddy around the living room.
‘He’s only five. No matter how tough a kid acts on the outside, deep down, all he wants is to be loved.”
I was so worried, you know? That he would be a terror for you. I’m just so relieved to see you both so hap
›y.”
My family is small, so after the initial holiday visits, Patrick and I spent most of our time at home.
‘d recently been studying cookbooks and had learned to make a few simple dishes.
From then on, our lives fell into a new routine: I ate takeout, and he ate my home cooking.
Mom, your food smells so good.”
This was the eighteenth time he’d said that.
took a large bite of my delivery curry, my words muffled. “Smells good, tastes bad. Not for kids. Kids wi
lie if they eat this.”
Fearing his drool might actually land in my bowl, I challenged him, “Is my cooking not delicious?”
He was speechless. He obediently returned to his own plate of food.
