Madison Frost
I placed Titus down on a chair at the counter. “Are you hungry, sweetie?” I asked, opening the fridge. I pulled out the orange juice.
“Are you still hurt?” he asked as I pulled down a glass for him.
“I’m a little sore, but I’m okay, bud,” I told him, as I went around the kitchen. I placed the cooked eggs over the heat while I toasted a slice of bread.
“How are you feeling this morning?” I leaned against the counter and slid the cup of juice over.
He shrugged, looking sad with a cute pout.
The toaster popped, and I plated his breakfast before rounding the counter and sitting beside him. Putting down the plate, I took his hands into mine.
“What’s bothering you, Titus? You know you can tell me anything,” I told him, softly. Witnessing something like that couldn’t have bee
