ARTHUR
I watched as Doris sat on the edge of Mia’s bed, reading to my precious daughter.
“Goodnight moon, goodnight spoon,” Doris said.
“Goodnight moon, goodnight spoon,” Mia repeated.
“Goodnight goon, goodnight monsoon,” Doris said.
“It doesn’t say that!” Mia exclaimed and giggled.
“How do you know?” Doris asked, holding the book playfully away from Mia. “Are you reading? You don’t even know how to read. You’re only three years old.”
“Mommy,” Mia said and rolled her eyes. “I’m seven! And you know I can read.” Mia pointed toward the book. That does not say ‘monsoon.’
“So what does it say?” Doris asked.
I stepped away from the doorway, content. I had hoped that Doris would be a good mother figure to Mia, but this was so much more. It warmed my heart.
I opened my computer to look
