The Weekday One Hundred

Two young kids roughhousing. One tripped and started crying. Your typical playground horsecrap.

But my boy saw an opportunity and sprinted to his classmate’s side. He crouched down, pulled a lopsided white paper square from his pocket.

The waterworks stopped instantly. The kid stared at the homemade card, puzzled.

When my son came back to the park bench, I had questions.

“I told him he should sue. Then I gave him my business card. Just like you do,” he said.

A damn chip off the old block.

I didn’t know whether to burst into tears or give him a job.