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The Greeter

The van headlights lit up the garage as my daughter and I coasted in at ten to six.

And there, with the door from the garage to the laundry room flung open to its hinges, was my son–the lone welcomer, waving wildly like he was in a parade.

His face got grave when I parked, and when I opened my driver’s side door, he was already there.

Did I know what the cat had done, he’d asked breathlessly.

And I didn’t know.

And.

Did not care.

Which was when my son’s eyes spread wide like pancakes, and he blurted, “Well, he puked all over the floor.”

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One Response to “The Greeter”

  1. Linda H says:

    Poor James. I hope he is feeling better now.

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