I picked up a colored, paper sheriff's badge that my seven year old foster kid made weeks ago. And for some reason (insobriety might be the reason) I could not stop crying.

I wasn't even really, like, sad. It was more like a longing for that kind of simple life. Just sit down, color a worksheet, have fun with it for an hour, run around, eat some apple slices. In hindsight, this was probably a really bad time to start playing A Night In The Woods.

If I wanted to make a large leap, he's about the age when my parents got divorced. Was this some kind of terrible sympathy for a child persisting through a disintegrating family? I do often feel the urge to help him make all that he can of his childhood, and an awful self-loathing when my selfishness gets in the way of that.

Bring an adult is hard, moreso when it reminds you of things you missed desperately, and of things you wished stayed in the past, forgotten.