Chartrand…

What Child Is This

David Chartrand

It is 8 a.m. and there is someone in my little boy’s bed.

Pushing up through the blanket is the outline of a man’s body. Draped over the edge of the mattress are a man’s hands, thick and slightly hairy. Something is wrong.

I am certain this is my son’s room. I stop here nearly every morning for small talk with a small child.  So why do I see Size 10 sneakers on the floor?

I knock firmly on the bedroom door.