Prologue
“Dad,why do I have to go there again?” I’m whining, and I know it. Seven-year-old boys aren’t supposed to whine or cry, everyone knows that. I can’t help it, though. “Can’t you stay home with me, just this once? Please, Dad?”
“Luca, you know if I could, I would, but I have to work.”
He always has to work. He never plays with me, or colors with me, or watches silly movies with me anymore.
He just works.
“I’ll only be gone a few days. I have to fly out in a few hours to meet a client.”
Yup. There is always a trip, always a client.
He didn’t work this much before mom got sick.
Now she’s gone forever, and he’s always at work.
“I don’t want to go there, Dad. Can’t I come with you?” I already know I can’t—he never lets me come with him. “I promise I’ll be quiet and behave.”
Dad squats down, so he’s eye level with me, and takes my hands in his. “Bud, I know you don’t quite understand, and I know it isn’t fair, but you can’t come with me to work. You’ll have fun with Mike and Robin. You’ll get to play with their son, Connor. He has all the Legos and trucks you like, and they have the trampoline. I know how much you love trampolines.”
He is right. I do love trampolines, but I do not love their house.
Connor is nice; a little weird, and he picks his nose, but he’s nice. He shares his toys without being mean and lets me be the leader when we play sometimes.
His mom is nice too. She makes yummy food and always smiles at me. She gives me blankets at night that smell like flowers and always reads me stories.
I don’t really like his dad, though. His dad makes me feel uncomfortable. He always wants me to lie down with him or sit on his lap at night. I don’t even sit on Dad’s lap anymore. I’m seven.
“Dad, please!”
“Luca, that’s enough already. I have to work, and Mike and Robin are nice enough to watch you while I’m gone.” He is getting upset with me now. I don’t like upsetting him. “You will be on your best behavior while you’re there, and I will be back in a few days, understand?”
“Yes, Dad, I understand.”
I want to cry.
I won’t.
Seven-year-old boys don’t cry.