Page 9 of A Place Like You

Finnegan’s father is an archeologist and an amazing man who’s been wonderful with Milo. He had taken my boy on weekend trips when my work at CQS became too demanding. Lately, there hasn’t been any last-minute calls or big emergencies from CQS, but I’m sure that when they happen, he won’t just step in to take care of him.

Now, his attention is almost exclusively on his first granddaughter, Rhea. I doubt he’ll have time to take my son to the museum or on any adventure.

The thought of finding someone else to cover for me on weekends so I can take my son out on trips flits through my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. My current life doesn’t afford me the luxury of leisure trips or leisurely adventures.

“Can we have a pet dinosaur?” Milo suddenly asks, snapping me back to the present moment.

“Dinosaurs are extinct, bud,” I gently explain, hoping that this doesn’t become an obsession like the time he was fixated on trains and engines. Trains were easy to research, but dinosaurs are an entirely different beast—literally.

“Not in Jurassic Park,” he quips with a victorious glint in his eyes.

I can’t help but laugh. “That’s a movie. And even if dinosaurs were still around, I think our town would be a little too small to house a gigantic Argentinosaurus, don’t you think?”

He nods, but my response doesn’t deter his enthusiasm. He immediately launches into plans to turn his room into a dinosaur wonderland and further probe into their diet. He hopes we can incorporate these prehistoric meals into our daily menu—even suggests that maybe Aunt Jez can serve some of those dishes at the bar.

“Most of them were herbivores,” I offer, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction.

His brow furrows. “Herbo what?”

“Herbivores,” I correct him. “They’re animals that only eat plants. They don’t eat other animals or meat. They have special teeth and digestive systems that help them eat and digest plants. Some herbivores, like cows, have big flat teeth that help them chew and grind grass. Others, like rabbits, have sharp teeth that help them bite and chew on leaves and vegetables.”

He gives me a worried look. “But I need dino-nuggets.”

“You’re right, and I have good news for you.” I try to sound as enthusiastic as possible. “We humans are omnivores.”

His quizzical gaze finds mine again.

“An omnivore is a type of animal that eats both plants and meat. Think of having the best of both worlds—the herbivores and the carnivores. Being an omnivore means they have a more flexible diet and can eat different kinds of food.

“So, let’s imagine you have a plate of food in front of you,” I continue, hoping to keep his attention and steer him away from his let’s eat only dino-food (whatever that means). “If you’re an omnivore, you have the option to choose from both plant-based foods and animal products. You can enjoy yummy fruits, vegetables, grains, and nuts, just like herbivores. But you can also have some meat, like chicken, beef, or fish, if you want to.”

Please want to . . . he hates fish.

He scrunches his nose, clearly showing his dislike for fish. I chuckle softly, understanding his aversion. “Well, you have the freedom to decide what you want to eat,” I assure him.

Distracted by Milo’s culinary dino-adventures, I reach for my phone and quickly search if any dinosaurs were omnivores. A sigh of relief escapes me as I find the answer. “Oviraptors ate all kinds of food, like you,” I tell him. “I don’t think we need to modify our menu, after all.”

“Okay,” he chirps, accepting the fact as satisfactory.

“They ate fish,” I toss in casually as I place a plate of fluffy waffles drizzled with maple syrup in front of Milo.

He doesn’t acknowledge my comment and digs into his meal. I multitask, scanning through my emails, confirming patient appointments, and mentally organizing my day.

The frantic morning routine continues with the search for Milo’s socks. He insists on finding the ones with dinosaurs on them, but they seem to have vanished. I manage to convince him to settle for the pair with puppies on them, promising to search the entire house for his favorite socks later. Deep down, I know it’s a frivolous request, and I shouldn’t trouble Finnegan for something so small.

As I wave goodbye to Milo at his preschool, his bright and infectious energy bathes me with a sense of love. His young voice sings out, “I love you, Mommy,” and it echoes in my heart. It becomes a soft whisper that tells me, despite the time it takes to hunt down his dinosaur socks or whatever the next big thing is, it’s all worth it. He is worth it.

He’s my everything.

His teacher reminds me that it’s his turn for show and tell next week. I add that to my to-do list, so I don’t forget. The last time, we couldn’t find his pet rock and had a terrible day. This time it won’t happen; I promise myself. I’ll be ready.

* * *

As I step into the clinic, my mood takes a sudden shift when I spot Drake Kershaw casually lounging at the reception alongside Victoria, my assistant, sometimes nurse, and favorite multitasker. A lab coat drapes over his tall frame, displaying the embroidered name “Dr. Drake,” but the rest of the embroidery is unclear. If only I could make it out, maybe I could Google him and uncover why he’s part of the Endor program.

Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “What, it’s just Dr. Drake, no last name? Are you some kind of rapper?” I can’t help but add a touch of sarcasm to my voice as I question him.

Drake glances around, shaking his head. “I was asked to take off the rest for security purposes. And the rapper you’re thinking of is Dr. Dre, not Drake.”

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