Fricken Dimes

Mike swears he isn’t planting the dimes.   He swears upside down and sideways that he has nothing to do with them.

I got into a fight with my 13 year old today.   He then said he hated living with me, that all I do was yell.

I stopped to think about that for a minute.  And then I thought about it some more.   And we had a conversation, Andrew and I.

I may have been yelling more.  I don’t know.  I know I’ve been more stressed.   Under more pressure.

So after I had another conversation with Andrew about his attitude and my yelling, I walked towards the downstairs.

Sitting on a ledge, where I had put a couple of knick-nacks, not *really* accessible to anyone, in an awkward spot that would have required someone to lean out dangerously over the stairs, was a dime, perfectly centred between two of the knick-nacks.

I know that the dime is from Mark.  I know that it’s a message from him.   I’m not sure WHAT the message is, but I know that it is a message.

I’m hoping that the message is something along the lines of “You’re doing good.  Keep it up.  I’m here, watching over you.”

Mark in Fruitvale


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