It was almost dusk. Three of my four young stepchildren were all accounted for, already inside after riding their bicycles and a tricycle up and down our short, dead-end street on the warm summer’s day.
Soon it was too dark to see outside and dinner was about to be served. The fourth stepchild, Dustin, finally walked slowly through the front door. I was puzzled to see his head hung low with a dejected look across his face. It was odd because he’d been ecstatic all day. He’d worked diligently to extract a loose tooth, got it out by midmorning and proudly displayed it, eager for the Tooth Fairy’s visit later that night.
But throughout the evening, he continued to look miserable, even worried, and remained quiet. He wouldn’t say what was wrong nor why he hadn’t come in with his siblings.
Bedtime came around. Everyone bathed and, after a story was read, the two girls retired to their room and the two boys to theirs. After all the kids were tucked in with lights out, I waited.