A Small Boy's Cry Read Online Free

bedrooms, you know that.’
    Phoebe looks suddenly crestfallen and I realise that, still recovering from the shock of seeing his bed empty, my tone must have been sharp. Until recently, Phoebe had no idea how to play with other children. It’s lovely that she’s chosen to share her toys with Charlie of her own accord.
    â€˜It’s all right, honey. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should have reminded you of the rules. I think it’s very kind of you to be so welcoming to Charlie. How about we bring some of your toys down to show him?’
    â€˜Yay!’ Phoebe cheers, and runs back to her room.
    Charlie claps his hands and scrambles onto the sofa, all trace of yesterday’s shyness gone. The resilience of children never fails to surprise me.
    â€˜Me be good boy,’ he announces, bouncing up and down on the cushions in spite of his injured head.
    I’m about to tell him that the sofa is for sitting on when Phoebe arrives back in the living room, armed with piles of toys. Charlie’s eyes light up and he throws himself down on the sofa on his tummy, then rolls to the floor.
    â€˜Be careful of your head, Charlie,’ I say, cringing, but his kamikaze antics don’t seem to have caused him any pain.
    Emily and Jamie, well past playing with toys at their age, join in eagerly now they have a young housemate to entertain. I go off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, the sound of their loud laughter bringing a smile to my face.
    Sometimes, when we welcome a child into our family, relationships are thrown out of kilter. It can take a while to establish a new fulcrum, but with younger ones it’s much easier to rearrange ourselves around them, perhaps because it feels more natural for older ones to make way for the new.
    With breakfast on the table, the three older children take their places; Jamie, unsurprisingly, the first to sit down.
    â€˜Come on, Charlie. Breakfast time,’ I say.
    Knowing how desperate Charlie was to eat yesterday, I can hardly believe that he rejects the invitation with barely a glance, continuing to play with Phoebe’s toys.
    â€˜Come on, honey.’ I slip my hands under his arms and try to lift him to his feet, but he arches his back then suddenly plays dead, taking advantage of my surprise by wriggling free. I lunge for him a couple of times but he dodges me, screeching in triumph. I suppose I should feel encouraged, knowing that he would only strop if feeling safe and secure. Part of me feels pleased. The rest of me is weary.
    â€˜Guess what I’ve got over here,’ Jamie says, his tone enticing.
    Charlie’s head shoots around, so I go and take my place at the table, leaving my son to work the magic therapy that seems to come so easily to children.
    â€˜I think Charlie’s going to like this, Mum,’ Jamie says, lowering his voice theatrically.
    It’s one of his strengths, the art of persuasion. I’m convinced that my son has the makings of a future MP. The beginning of a smile touches Charlie’s lips and he crawls slowly to the table, kneeling up when he reaches Jamie’s chair.
    â€˜Me see?’
    Jamie shakes his head. ‘Sit up first, then I’ll show you.’ I could have hugged him.
    Charlie performs a convoluted roll onto his tummy then rises on all fours, drawing the whole process out as long as he can. Standing, he plants such a small part of his bottom on the chair that he has to grip hold of the edge of the table for balance. He looks at me, a glint of defiance still lurking in his eyes. I lean back in my chair and stretch, heading off a battle of wills by looking casual and faking a yawn.
    â€˜Me see now?’
    â€˜OK,’ Jamie announces, strumming a drum beat on the table. ‘Are you ready? Ta-da!’ he shouts, producing a banana.
    Expecting Charlie’s face to fall with disappointment I prepare to grab him before he slips off his seat, but I’m surprised to find