It took forty minutes, two stories, one glass of water, one absurd negotiation over whether the red car was allowed to “breathe” outside his bedroom door, and one very quiet threat from me before Aiden finally fell asleep.The red car stayed in the garage.The little toy car was allowed to sleep on the nightstand.It was a compromise that, according to Aiden, still violated several basic rights of professional drivers, but his eyes had grown too heavy for him to continue the lawsuit. He slept on his side, one cheek pressed into the pillow, his black fringe falling over part of his forehead, his lips slightly parted, and one chubby hand still gripping the little car as if it might escape if left unsupervised.I stood in the doorway longer than necessary.The room was dim, lit by a small moon-shaped nightlight Saba had once declared too aesthetic for a four-year-old. Aiden’s sheets were tangled because he slept like someone at war with his mattress. On the floor, there was one sock, one
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