Subtitled: I’m sorry, John, but this is what happens when you take off on me.
It all started with a toad on Tuesday.
Two toads, actually. And then one escaped and the other remained, trapped and miserable in a purple plastic bucket in the corner of our driveway.
“Angela, please. Will you let that poor toad go, already?”
“I’ll let it go when you get me a pet.”
Clever. That girl is nothing if not clever.
And just a bit manipulative.
On Thursday, then, Felicity started in.
“I want a pet really bad, Mom. I’ve wanted a pet since Ellie died.”
And then she blinked at me.
She’s only seven but already she’s wise to her feminine wiles.
Look. I’ve been a single mom for the past six days. John went camping up in the Boundary Waters, taking the three oldest kids—aka my work force and my moral support—with him.
Is it my fault I caved to my little girls’ cajoling?
And will my feminine wiles get me by when he gets home?
PS. Her name is Greta. She’s very cute.