Page 29 of Tough Love

“How about we deal with this first, huh?” I tap him on the end of the nose, and he stares at me, shocked at the contact.

Step too far?I offer a smile and scoot through to the toilet to get a few squares of paper. He follows me down the hall, surprising me, so I squat down right there and clutch the folded paper to his nose the way I remember Mum doing when we were kids.

“Blow.”

He sniffs.

Dammit.“You have to push it out, mate.”

He frowns, inhales hard, and then manages to sniff again.

Ugh.“Can you do this?” I snort a few times, hoping he gets the picture.

He sniffs three times.

Seriously? Who would have pickedthiswould be the most difficult part of looking after a kid.

“Okay, we’ll do something different.” I squish his nose between the paper and my fingers, pushing what I can out of his nostrils.

Not quite as clear as I’d hoped, but at least it’s not tracking down his face anymore.

“So,” I try, “where are your pyjamas, buddy?”

He frowns, the fight evident in the hard set of his shoulders.

“Hey, even if you don’t go to bed, you gotta keep warm, right?” I rub his cold arm to make my point.

He appears to think my logic over, and then abruptly starts back toward his bedroom. Mum hesitates at the head of the stairs, her look silently asking if everything’s okay. I give her a thumbs up and turn into Briar’s room behind him.

“Which ones are you wearing tonight?”

He pushes things around in his drawer, and comes up with a matching set emblazoned with monster trucks. “These ones.”

“Cool, buddy.”

“Mummy got me these.”

I’ve got no doubt she boughtallhis pyjamas, and yet, the sentiment has me choked up. “Well, let’s get you wrapped up warm in them.”

He struts across to his bed and climbs on top to wrestle the clothes on. I help him untangle his head hole from his armholes, and then straighten the shirt.

“Perfect.”

Briar steals a yawn, and then hops off to collect a book from his shelves. “Can we read this one?”

I smile as he shows meFox in Socks,and nod. “Sure.”

Ten very tongue-tied minutes later, I pull the covers up to his waist, and tuck his favourite cuddly toy in beside him. He nestles down into the pillow that absolutely dwarfs his little head and stares up at me with big eyes.

“What’s the matter, buddy?”

He doesn’t have to say anything; I can see it. No matter how tired he is, he’s fighting sleep, and I don’t know why.

“I don’t like going to sleep.”

“Why, though?”

He shrugs, probably unable to find the words for it. “Today was bad.”

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