Casa Robino

The culprit behind my liberty is an orange crayon.
I will never forget changing that last shitty diaper and seeing those orange flakes of brightness amidst liquid brown.
Are those carrots?
Damn.
It was the crayon he had had for breakfast that morning.
"Petra, um [...]"
Then, I proceeded to tell her that while I was playing a card game with the other children, Thys had apparently been walking around eating a crayon.

"Well, where is it?!" she demanded. "WE HAVE TO KNOW HOW MUCH HE ATE!"
"I... don't know. The box says 'non-toxic'."
"YES, BUT WE DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING IN HIS STOMACH!"

Then, I walked around the house for an obligatory five minutes, looking for the orange crayon, part of the collection of 64 that I had bought for the kids from the Dutch dollar store.

I walk over to the trash.
I check in the toy box.
Did he go in the garage?
No. There was no orange crayon to be found.

"Did you manage to find it?"
"No."
"This scares me."
"Apparently, I can't do this..."

Then, we sat down.
Then, it was over.
I didn't even cry.