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I bite the inside of my lip. If the question came out of any kid’s mouth other than my brother, I’d think it was cute and innocent. This isn’t charming, and it isn’t harmless.
Our parents didn’t have life insurance when they died. They didn’t have any insurance, for that matter. Paying for their funeral ended up being a burden I’d rather not relive. “No, Milo, I don’t think we need life insurance for Albert.” My voice chokes up a little until I get myself under control.
“What if—”
“Milo,” I interject softly, my heart aching for him. I place a comforting hand on his shoulder, drawing upon the lessons I’ve learned in the past few years as his makeshift guardian. “Albert doesn’t need life insurance because he’s a kitten. He’s not like you or me. He won’t cost the same, and we’re going to do everything we can to keep him safe and healthy.”
I meet his gaze with a reassuring smile, hoping to offer a sense of comfort that I wish I received at his age. It’s moments like these that remind me of the weighty responsibilities I’ve taken on, but also the profound connection and love that make it all worthwhile.
“When.”
“What do you mean, when?”
“When he dies,” he states, his hands not once stopping as he pets Albert. “We all die, Lottie. It isn’t anif.It iswhen.”
“Well, when he dies, then we will bury him in the garden.” Not one of those parenting classes taught me how to parent a traumatized child.
“Hmm,” he hums. “I’ll make him a headstone.” He pushes his glasses up his little button nose. “Now, can we go to the pet store?”
“Of course.” I pick up the little fur ball, who blinks those big blue eyes at me. “He needs a bell.”
“I already thought about that,” Milo says in a voice well beyond his eight years. “Otherwise, you will trip over him.”
Gasping, I drop the kitten in my lap. “Milo, what are you insinuating?”
“I’m suggesting that you’re a klutz,” he deadpans, a look of utmost seriousness fixed upon me. It’s delivered with such gravity that the humor in his statement almost feels unintentional. “Lottie, you managed to trip over the air this morning and bumped your hip into the table.”
“I hadn’t had coffee yet,” I defend. “Besides, I barely slept last night. I only got a meager four hours. Hey, I had to pick up a shift tomorrow night. Tate said she’d watch you.”
“Lottie,” he says in a voice that makes me wonder who is parenting whom. “Tatum is an adult child. Did you know the last time she was here, I had to teach her how to make scrambled eggs?”
“Yes,” I answer, aware of that fact. “And she’s appreciative.” So am I, given that it implies Jani won’t be keeping an eye on him. “Since it’s a closing shift, I’ll make sure you’re both fed before I head in.”
“I’d like dinosaur nuggets,” he says stoically. At least two bags of frozen dinosaur nuggets are in my freezer at any given time. They are his current food fixation. I’d buy ten bags if I could because he’s eating. I don’t care if he’s living off nuggets.
“Well, my little raptor.” I roll up to stand and walk to the bathroom, cradling the kitten to my chest. “How about you tell me what you want to eat today, and we will worry about tomorrow when it arrives?”
“It’s nearly one. It’s after lunch and too soon to eat dinner,” he says, far too close behind me.
I reach for a small bowl I keep jewelry in when I shower and fill it with water. “Then today, we shall eat lunar.”
I place the kitten on the floor with his new water bowl, back out of the bathroom, and shut the door. When I turn around, it’s to see Milo’s raised brow. “I see what you are trying to do, and I don’t approve.”
“No lunar?”
“Lunner,” he says, adjusting the vowels.
“Then what would you like for lunner?” I already know what I want—tacos. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
“A corn dog,” he says. I should have known. Milo is a creature of habit. There are literally three foods he will eat—Lucky Charms, dinosaur nuggets, and corn dogs.
“Done.” I point to the steps, which he reluctantly heads down. “Pet shop first, food trucks second.”
“Movie?” he asks over his shoulder. “There’s this new documentary about black holes I want to see.”
I don’t have it in me to tell him a documentary isn’t a movie. The kid likes what he likes. “Of course,” I say as we grab our coats and bundle up. “Anything you want.”
That is the crux of it all—I’d do anything and everything for this kid, and I’d still feel like it wasn’t enough.
