The head rolled.
Behind me, Toby groaned. “Oh no.”
I looked back.
“What is THAT?”
“Travel Dad,” Toby replied.
“What is Travel Dad?”
He sighed like I was being difficult.
“Dad.”
“That is not Dad.”
“I know, Mom.”
I closed my eyes.
Five minutes earlier, I had imagined the worst.
“What is THAT?”
Now I was arguing with an eight-year-old about whether a soccer ball counted as his father’s head.
Then I noticed the sweatshirt.
I knew it.
Julian had worn it the Sunday before his latest trip.
I picked up one sleeve.
It still smelled faintly of his deodorant.
Then I noticed the sweatshirt.
“Toby, why did you use Dad’s clothes?”
He scratched his cheek.
“Because they work better.”
“Better for what?”
He shrugged.
Toby hated silence when he knew I’d caught him doing something strange.
Finally he mumbled, “Clean ones don’t smell like Dad.”
Everything funny disappeared.
“Toby, why did you use Dad’s clothes?”
