I glanced toward Brenda.
“She’s two weeks old.”
“I’m talking about Ben. He needs to understand that the baby can’t become the center of everything.”
I dismissed the conversation.
Ben wasn’t jealous.
I knew my son.
At least, I thought I did.
But the following morning, I found him underneath the crib again.
And the morning after that.
Every day, I carried his pillow and blanket back into his bedroom.
Every night, sometime after Daniel and I fell asleep, Ben returned to Brenda’s room.
By the fourth morning, it no longer seemed funny.
Daniel tried negotiating.
“If you sleep in your own bed every night this week, we’ll get pizza Friday.”
Ben shook his head.
“I don’t want pizza.”
Daniel stared at him.
“You always want pizza.”
“Not that much.”
That answer bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
Because Daniel was right.
