Milo had a red cushion at the end of the sofa.

It was not officially his, but everyone knew.

The baby had learned to clap.

When Mother built a tower and knocked it down, the baby slapped both hands and laughed.

Father laughed too. Mother laughed again.

The baby laughed because they laughed.

Milo watched from the carpet.

Something in his stomach pulled itself into a small, hard knot.

He drove his truck under the table.

The wheel knocked the chair leg, hard.

Nobody looked up.

Then Mother looked over.

"Something changed in your face," she said. "Did it get tight inside?"

Milo kicked the rug edge.

"You like the baby better."

The words came out sharp, then wobbly.

Father sat on the floor near him.

"Sharp on the outside," he said. "Wobbly underneath. I want to hear it."

Milo pointed at the sofa.

"That was my place. Now the baby gets all the funny."

Mother moved the blocks aside. Father patted the red cushion.

"The baby is small and needs holding. You need holding too. We can make room badly first, then better."

Milo climbed beside Father. The baby crawled near the truck.

Milo held it close.

"This one is mine. The soft block can be for the baby."

"That works," Mother said.

The baby chewed the block. Milo leaned into Father's side.

The knot in his stomach did not vanish, but it loosened.