It was late. We were on our way out the door. Papa had remembered he didn't bring the boy's backpack in from his car after they'd arrived from the baby sitter's house. This is usually the case when the grandparents are the intermediary link between day care and the end of the work day.
He went to retrieve it as I wrestled my talkative tot into his car seat.
He wasn't gone for more than a minute when the boy had decided he'd left without saying 'Goodbye.'
"I'm. Never. Going. To. See. Him. Again," he stammered as I tried to reassure him that that he would be back and he would be bearing a familiar red nylon bag filled with toys ...
Before I could finished, Papa was there saying proper farewells.
As I eased the car out of the driveway I saw my dad lope back toward his car. The boy was looking ahead, where he'd expected to see his grandfather waving in the glare of headlights.
"Did you hit papa?" his little voice chirped from the back, a little more assured than distressed.
"What?" I responded, not quite understanding what he was saying.
"YOU. HIT. PAPA!" He repeated.
"I didn't hit papa. He didn't go into the house, he went back to his car," I replied, pointing out of the window toward a white puff of hair bouncing along the road.
"Oh," He said, relieved. "'Cause I love that ol' Pop."