No answer. I called again. And again.
An hour passed. Then two. I sat by the front window with my phone in both hands and watched the driveway.
When Brenda’s car finally pulled in, I ran outside before she’d turned the engine off.
Leo climbed out of the back seat, crying. He was holding something small and golden in his fist.
One of his curls.
The rest were gone. In their place was a rough, uneven buzz cut.
He was holding something small and golden in his fist.„
I just stood there, staring at him.
“Leo? baby? what happened to your hair?” I finally managed to ask.
He looked up at me with swollen eyes.
“Grandma cut it, Mommy.”„
Brenda stepped out, looking completely calm.
“There,” she said, brushing her hands together as if she’d just finished fixing a problem. “Now he looks like a real boy!”
“Leo? baby? what happened to your hair?”„
I don’t remember exactly what I said to Brenda in that driveway.
I remember her telling me I was being dramatic before driving away. Then I took Leo inside and held him on the couch while he cried into my shoulder, still gripping that single curl in his small fist.
When Mark came home two hours later and saw our son’s head, he went very still. He knelt on the carpet in front of Leo and gently touched the uneven patches.
“Daddy,” Leo cried, “why did Grandma cut my hair?”
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