Volume 13: The Return of the Goblin

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4:03 PM. School is out. Peace is over.

I hear him before I see him. Thundering through the foyer like a linebacker made of graham crackers and ambition. The three-year-old—Chunk—has returned. I brace.

His backpack hits the floor. His shoes remain on. This concerns me.

He calls my name with desperation usually reserved for lost sailors. “POOOOKIIIEEEEE.”

He elongates the vowels like he’s casting a spell.

I’m perched on the windowsill. Regal. Untouched.

He spots me. I do not run—running is for prey. I hold the gaze.

He sprints. Bounding forward, fists clenched like he’s ready to negotiate…or bite. Eyes glistening with post-preschool feral joy.

He reaches me and performs what he believes is “gentle petting.”

It is not gentle.

It is five open-palmed flourishes that leave me wondering if he thinks I’m a tambourine.

He kisses my head. He whispers, “You’re my squishy baby queen.”

I blink. Twice. I am processing the title.

Then he tells me about his day.

There was juice. There was dirt.

He made a “friend” who stole his cracker and was promptly un-friended.

I have become his confessional booth.

His therapist.

His emotional support woodland creature.

I endure the cuddles. I tolerate the storytime.

Because despite the chaos, the volume, the syrup fingers and dramatic monologues—he is loyal.

And loyalty is the only acceptable currency.

4:08 PM. He wanders off in search of snacks.

I readjust my fur.

Plot revenge.

And prepare for his inevitable return, probably wearing a blanket cape and claiming he’s the King of Moon Cheese.

I am Pookie.

And my reign is unshaken.