us, hating him would have been simple.
But he had.
Somewhere along the way, he simply forgot.
The noise is still here.
Seven boys.
One dog that eats socks.
Backpacks under chairs.
Somebody shouting “Mom!” from another room.
Some days I’m so tired I cry.
But on Wednesday evenings, when Daniel’s car arrives exactly on time and the younger boys race outside yelling,
“Daddy!”
I stand at the kitchen window and watch.
Ben raises his arms.
Daniel picks him up.
Scoop.
Throw.
Shriek.
And I think about my sixteen-year-old son
