He resisted for half a second, then he broke, clinging to me like I was the only solid thing holding him against a raging storm.
“Hey,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, “we’ll take care of him, Ethan. Both of you.
We’ll bring Smokey home with us, I promise.”
Ethan’s voice was muffled against my shirt. “Really? You mean it?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice steady now, resolute.
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“Absolutely. We’ll go get him tomorrow morning. Together.”
For the first time in years, I felt something loosen inside me.
My son wasn’t a problem to solve; he was just a kid in pain, a kid who needed his dad. And I was right there. It wasn’t too late after all, was it?
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