Child Care
Astronomy
Child
A few days later, following Loretta’s very precise instructions, I arrived at Brenna’s house. It leaned slightly to one side, its paint peeling in long curling strips like sunburned skin. The front door creaked open before I’d even had the chance to knock, and Brenna stood there smiling, wide and unguarded, her arms hanging loose at her sides, fingers twisting together in a rhythm that seemed more like instinct than any conscious choice.
“Hi!” she said, her voice bright and almost musical. “I saw you coming. Did you park by the mailbox? It’s wobbly. I keep meaning to fix it, but—” She trailed off mid-sentence, eyes darting toward the corner of the doorframe. She tapped it three times with her knuckles, deliberate and unhurried, then looked back at me like nothing had happened at all.
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“Uh, yeah,” I said, awkward in a way I rarely let myself be. “I’m Mona. Your sister.”
“Come in!” she said, stepping aside without quite meeting my eyes. “Watch the floorboard near the kitchen. It squeaks.”
Inside, the house smelled faintly of clay and damp earth. A narrow hallway opened into a kitchen dominated by a long workbench crowded with half-finished pottery, jars of paint in every color, and tools I couldn’t begin to name. Brenna rearranged a set of mismatched vases on the windowsill three separate times, muttering something under her breath before finally nodding to herself, satisfied. Then she turned back to me, her smile returning exactly as bright as before.
“You’re my sister,” she said, like she was still testing the shape of the word in her mouth.
“Yes,” I said slowly, unsure how to move through a conversation with someone this openly honest. “Our father passed away recently.”
Parenting
Her smile didn’t waver at all. “What’s it like? Having a dad?”
“It’s hard to explain. He was kind. He cared about things. We were close, in our own way.”
She nodded, fingers twitching lightly against her thighs. “I never met him. But I have his hands.” She held up her palms, faint traces of dried clay still caught in the creases. “Mom always said so. Big hands, like his.”
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Child
Her sincerity disarmed me completely. I’d braced myself for resentment on the drive over, or at the very least suspicion. Instead she radiated something closer to quiet, uncomplicated acceptance.
“Dad left me a gift,” she said.
“A gift,” I repeated carefully. “That’s nice.”
