What Tyler had drawn there completely changed the conversation.
“Can I have ice cream?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Tyler was standing in front of the open freezer while I stirred spaghetti sauce on the stove.
Cold air spilled around his bare feet.
“No. Close the freezer.”
“But there’s chocolate.”
“I know.”
“And vanilla.”
“Yes, Tyler. I know what ice cream we own.”
He stared into the freezer like he was studying his legal options.
“Can I have chocolate?”
“After dinner.”
His face fell.
“But I’m hungry now.”
“That’s convenient. Dinner is almost ready.”
“I don’t want spaghetti.”
“You loved spaghetti three days ago.”
“That was three days ago.”
I turned down the burner and faced him.
My son was seven years old, stubborn enough to negotiate with gravity, and currently wearing only one sock because he had declared the other one “uncomfortable emotionally.”
