Feels Like Monday

As a working parent, I’ve resigned myself to mornings of psychological warfare with a son who’d rather I stay home and play. Quivering bottom lips, dejected sighs, slumped shoulders. Sometimes he’ll move beyond the passive-aggressive and cling to my leg or kiss my cheek. Barbed phrases like ‘But I miss you’ or ‘I want to play with you’ that slide under my skin and fester throughout the day.

This morning Ian moved quietly into avant-garde and wrote his name above a sad face he’d drawn on his dry-erase board. He held it in front of his chest and looked at me, pleadingly, saying nothing, before lowering his head. A lost puppy who needs a loving home.

I kissed his cheek, opened the door, and walked into the rain.

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