Connor’s father glanced at my son.
Then he noticed the milk dripping from Mason’s hair and clothes.
His expression changed.
“What happened?”
Connor shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Nothing.”
One of his friends looked away.
His father stepped closer.
“Do not lie to me.”
Connor’s jaw tightened.
“I said it was nothing.”
I couldn’t stay silent.
“Your son poured milk over my baby.”
The man’s eyes snapped toward me.
I expected disbelief.
Maybe defensiveness.
Parents could become protective when someone accused their children of doing something terrible.
Instead, his face went completely still.
“He did what?”
“He poured milk over my son’s head.”
Connor finally spoke.
“He was crying.”
I stared at him.
His father did too.
Connor shrugged weakly.
“It was annoying.”
His father’s face hardened.
“He’s one year old.”
Connor said nothing.
The man looked at Mason again.
Mason had stopped screaming, but he was still sobbing in short, exhausted bursts.
