A/N: Just because it's been that kind of day.
"Daddy?" The little voice called from the front room doorway.
"Hey, Sport," Henry said. He set aside his newspaper and looked to where his son John stood near him in Lone Ranger pajamas and tousled hair. He was three. "What are you doing up?"
"When's Mommy coming home?"
"She'll be home in a while," Henry told him. He walked over and scooped his son up in his arms. "Grandma's pretty sick and Mommy's gotta make sure she's okay. But then she'll be home. Okay?"
"Okay."
"All right, then. Let's put you back to bed."
Hearing that, John looked just about as sad he could possibly look. He put his arms around Henry's neck and heaved a heavy sigh and stuck his lower lip out farther than should've been humanly possible and blinked watery eyes up at his father.
Henry knew he was being played – he thought Lassie herself could never look so woebegone – but he decided to play along.
"What do you say you sit with me until Mommy comes home, hmm? We can listen to some music, I've got the new Pat Boone album, Pat Boone sings Irving Berlin. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Not that music Mommy listens, right? Chuck Berry? No, nobody listens to Chuck Berry."
The record was already on the stereo and Henry only had to push the lever to start it. Then he sat back in his chair and settled John in his lap and covered them both with the white and gold afghan Millie had made.
It didn't take long for John to slip back to sleep, safe and warm in his father's arms.
"I love you," Henry said, kissing his son goodnight.
The end.
