The Forgotten Son

“I hate you” was the first word my oldest said to me. The traditional “mama” and “dada” occurred some years before, but my wife Holly and I were not there to hear them. Those words were heard by someone else and told to other people.

“Do you want a stuffed animal?” I asked, offering a plush tiger from the Wal-Mart toy shelf. “Why are you gettin’ me this?” was the only response from the confused three-year-old securely fastened in the cart. “How about a dump truck?” I said, holding up a yellow miniaturization of a mining vehicle.

“I think he can wear fours,” Holly interrupted while holding a t-shirt to his neck and sizing a new pair of shoes to the ones he had on. “I will get him a few shirts, some pants, underwear, socks, a coat, and a pair of shoes,” she said while disappearing to the clothing department.

After several minutes, the cart, full of clothes, toys, and children’s books, lumbered to the checkout aisle. With the boy locked into the seat, we placed items from the cart onto the conveyor belt. An expressionless clerk performed a robotic swipe over the scanner, followed by a familiar ding, before quickly putting the item into a blue plastic bag.

“Baby shampoo,” Holly exclaimed as the last item passed the scanner. “Take him to the car while I find baby shampoo, toothpaste, and a toothbrush,” she said, moving quickly out of sight…