It started like a normal kid thing.
Saturday afternoon, my nine-year-old burst through the door with red cheeks and the wrong shoes on his feet—literally the neighbor kid’s sneakers.
“They’re cooler,” he said, like that ended the conversation.
I told him to take them off, set them by the door, and kept moving.
Three days later, he was on the couch scratching his foot like it was on fire.
“Stop picking,” I said without looking up.
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