“Come on,” I said to no one in particular. “They didn’t just DISAPPEAR.”
“What didn’t dis-pear, Momma?,” Conor said. He was three, with hair still a rat’s nest and pajama bottoms under his dinosaur shirt.
“My shoes, honey. Go get your sister and put your pants on.”
“Momma, shoes are over ‘dere!,” Conor insisted.
“No, honey. Not those. Go find your sister. KAITLYN!, ” I called.
“Yes, Mom,” she said, coming around the corner. She was less and less girl every minute, it seemed.
“Help your brother with his pants. I need to find my black pumps.”
“I didn’t take them,” she added swiftly.
“I didn’t say you did, honey. Go help your brother.”
“OK,” she said warily.
I could wear other shoes, I thought. But those were the perfect ones for this suit. I walked back into my bedroom in stockinged feet. I had gone through them all, even the ones in the back I wore to parties and formal occasions, and they weren’t there.
Conor wandered back in, now in jeans and sneakers and his dinosaur shirt, hair wet and no longer sticking out. “Good work, Kaitlyn,” I thought.
“Momma’s shoes ‘peared again?”, he asked.
“No, honey,” I said sadly.
“They gone? Denny Dragon burn them up?”
“No, honey. Dragons aren’t real.”
In his world, evil cartoon dragons burned things to cinders. To be fair, it worked as well as any explanation I had.
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