“Ugh,” he groans and stomps down the stairs until he’s in front of me with his arms crossed.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.
His face changes instantly. “Can we have that chicken pasta you make sometimes?”
“Hmm…” I pretend to think about it. “On second thought, maybe there’s no dinner for anyone today.”
“But, Daddy, I’ll be hungry later,” he says.
“How do you think Rosie will feel if she doesn’t get her meal?”
He looks at the tank and mutters, “Sorry, Rosie,” before going to the fridge to get her thawed food.
I watch as he carries out the task he’s never had problems doing. In fact, it’s become his thing. Once he got over holding a dead mouse, he’s always wanted to do it, and he enjoys watching as Rosie slowly eats her weekly meal.
“Okay, I’m finished,” he says and then goes to the bathroom to wash his hands.
“Good boy. Come here for a second. I want to talk to you about something.”
He joins me on the couch. He’s the spitting image of Fran, but his clear blue eyes are all mine. A lump forms in my throat at the thought that I might not get to tuck him into bed every night or spend the weekends playing treasure hunt.
I push the thoughts aside because I don’t want to show him I’m upset. Fran has never stayed this long in one go, so George is on cloud nine.
“Why did you forget to feed Rosie?”
He shrugs and looks down at his hands.
“You know, we agreed she was your responsibility when we got her.”
“I know,” he mutters. “It’s just…um…Mommy said we can’t take Rosie with us. She’ll need to go to a shelter.”
I pull him onto my lap. “Buddy, this is her home. She’s not going anywhere.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He hugs me. “Sorry I forgot to feed her. I was sad.”
I smile into his hair and kiss his head. “That’s okay. We talked about it.”
“Can we still have chicken for dinner?”
“We certainly can.”
“Okay, I’m going to play with my toys upstairs. Mommy says I can only take my favorite, so I’m playing with the others before we give them away.”
I let out a long, frustrated sigh once George is out of earshot.
While he’s playing, I check the fridge to see if we have the ingredients for the chicken pasta bake George wants.
I’m making a list when I see Arlo by the door to his old apartment above the studio. I step outside to meet him.
“Hey.”
“Oh, hey, I didn’t think you were in. Didn’t see your car outside,” he says.
“I washed it this morning, so it’s in the garage.”
