I don’t remember exactly what I said. As usual it was probably something stupid.
Whatever it was, the look on Becca’s face told me it wasn’t the right thing to say.
A quiet tension filled the space around us.
“Ooooooh, Mom and Dad are going to fight,” Colton said, trying to gather his brothers for the show.
He was playing the role of the instigator. There’s always that moment of tension before a playground fight. The fight might happen. Or the combatants could just as easily decide it isn’t worth the trouble. But there is always an instigator to push it over the edge. He’s the one that starts the chant. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
“We’re not going to fight,” I bit out at him, not even looking in his direction.
He looked at me with that look only an eight-year-old can have. That look they have when they realize they know something their parents don’t.
“Dad,” he said with certainty, “Have you seen Mom’s face? You’re about to fight.”
Despite myself, I laughed.