“No, sweet boy, Syd’s going to be fine,” I said as I reached out to push a sprouting tuft of hair behind his ear.

Eliot backed away from me, pressing himself against Oliver’s legs. “Don’t touch me!”

“Hey, bud, your mom is right,” Oliver said, scooping his son up. “Syd’s going to be okay. You don’t need to worry.”

Eliot clung to his neck, glaring at me. I tenderly rubbed circles on his back, but he wiggled away. “Leave me alone!” Eliot yelled. “I want Daddy!”

Where was my sweet boy in this madness? Was Oliver right—had I created this gulf between mother and child? Had I pushed Vera away too?

I heard the crackle of a car pulling into the parking area, then turned to see Debra getting out of her car. Eliot was whimpering now with his face buried in his daddy’s shoulder. Debra quickened her step.

“What’s going on with Eliot?” she asked, full of concern. “Everything okay?”

Great. I so did not want to involve my mother-in-law in this argument. But here she was, arms folded, expecting an explanation.

“No, Mom, it’s not okay. Your grandson overheard us talking about Sydney, and your son apparently thinks it’s unhealthy for me to worry about my children.”

She cast a disappointed look at Oliver. She was a mother too; we understood each other. “Ollie.” It was all she needed to say to chasten him.

“That’s hardly the issue, Felicity. You’re oversimplifying it,” he retorted.

“Enough fighting in front of Eliot,” Debra said, kissing Eliot’s ruddy cheek. “Your sister’s going to be fine, sweetie. The doctors are working hard to fix her.”

Eliot peeked out at her from Oliver’s shoulder. “Pinkie swear?”

Debra latched her pinkie around his. “Pinkie swear.” Then she kissed his tiny knuckles. “And who is this cute little thing?” She reached down and patted the dog’s head.

“A stray someone brought into the shop. I’m not sure what to do with her yet.”

“Let’s name her Ploppy!” Eliot said with a giggle.

“Why Ploppy?” Debra asked.

“Because she just plopped a big poop on Dad’s foot!”

“What?” Oliver looked down in dismay. “Ohmygod! My brand-new Air Maxes!” He sat Eliot down on the porch steps, then hopped on one foot into the grass to clean the soiled shoe.

“Daddy got a doody shoe, Daddy got a doody shoe!” Eliot chanted.

Debra and I shook with suppressed laughter. As much as we loved him, we shared the unspoken opinion that Oliver was the kind of guy who needed to have his shoe shat on every now and then.

“Cute and clever, aren’t you?” Debra chuckled to the dog in baby talk, leaning down making kissing noises.

Oliver returned to the porch steps, dangling the befouled Nike by the laces. “Mom, what are you doing here?” he sighed.