Stephen
I knew something was wrong when I came home and found my wife sitting on the kitchen floor.
Laura wasn’t hurt.
That was the first thing I established.
The second was that our sons were apparently responsible.
Austin sat beside her wearing nothing but a diaper and one sock, covered from his stomach to his eyebrows in something red. Evan stood at the sink on a chair, equally filthy, while Laura leaned against the cabinets with her eyes closed.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“Is that blood?”
Her eyes opened.
“Strawberry yogurt.”
I relaxed.
“Why is it on the ceiling?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”
I looked up.
There was, in fact, strawberry yogurt on the ceiling.
“How?”
“I just told you not to ask.”
“Daddy!”
Evan climbed down f
