“I think he knows the word poo,” Dad said, dropping the high chair, still in the box, near the sink. I’d spent the day letting the morning’s scene with Will play out in my head a thousand times. I would talk him out of it when he got home, I kept telling myself. When Dad buzzed that evening, I panicked for a moment, thinking that Will had called an agency and that they were coming to get Ian. I’d forgotten that Dad was coming to drop off the high chair so that Ian could start eating “real food.” I’d told him that it was still a couple of months too early to start with the food, but he’d insisted on bringing it over anyway, “just in case.” “I swear I heard him say ‘poo’ when we were in the hospital with his leg that night,” Dad said, leaning the large box against the coffee table. “Did I tell you that?” “He’s not even three months old,” I said. “Well, he’s advanced,” he said, ripping through the packing tape with his keys. I rolled my eyes. “Seriously,”
