Just in case you woke up this morning thinking "Hmmmm, I would like to suffer today," this chapter is for you.
It's raining.
Francis hates rain. No matter how warm the weather, it always makes him feel cold, and it wreaks havoc with his hair.
Mon Dieu, if this is all he can think at a time like this, he deserves everything he's getting.
He can't help it somehow, though. No matter how he tries, nothing that's happening around him feels real. Not the frowning woman in the pencil skirt. Not the woeful bag of Matthew's things slouching by the front door. Not even the rain.
And especially not the little boy clinging to his legs. Weeping. Sobbing. Screaming.
"I don't want to go! I don't want to go! Papa! Papa!"
Surely he should be feeling something as the social worker peels his foster son off of him, as Matthew shrieks, "No! Papa, come with me!"
But he hardly registers the red face contorted in grief and childish rage. He can barely move enough to reach a hand out towards the boy as the lady in the pencil skirt carries him to the door.
He thinks he can hear himself speaking. Be good. Don't cry. I love you.
I'm sorry.
Then he's out the door, and the hated rain on his hair—at last, of all things—pulls him from his stupor. All he can see is the pencil skirt as the social worker bends over into the back seat car, strapping Matthew—his Matthew—into a car seat.
The car door shuts. The rain is running down his face, and he can see the tears on Matthew's as the car pulls away.