Annie

The first thing I recognized was the Chrysler Building.

I think I noticed it because of how it shone, the sunlight setting it ablaze like a silver beacon in the midst of a maze of steel and glass. There was nothing else I could compare it to, certainly not anything I’d seen in Texas, and the truth was that I hadn’t been anywhere else.

I reached for my little instant camera, adjusting the settings before aiming it at the city and clicking the button. It spat out the familiar white-framed photo, black in the center where the memory would appear.

Meg’s mouth hung open, her eager ten-year-old eyes as big and wide as ping-pong balls as they bounced across the horizon.

“Whoa,” she breathed. “It’s so…big. It takes up the whole sky.”

My face was close enough to the window to feel my breath against my cheek when it rebounded off the glass, my own eyes as big as Meg’s as they did their best to drink in everything I saw like I’d been thirsty my whole life.

“How many square miles is it?” Meg asked.

“Let me look.”

I reached for my phone, glancing at Mama. She was less impressed than Meg and me, the normally invisible lines between her brows and the corners of her mouth pronounced. For her, it was a homecoming, one that was as unwanted and unwelcome as it was absolutely necessary.

My older sister, Elle’s, expression was unreadable, her hands on the steering wheel and gaze in front of her as she drove us toward the Lincoln Tunnel. The only betrayal of her sadness was reflected in the rearview mirror, buried in the depths of her eyes.

I pulled up Wikipedia and read through the city’s statistics. “Manhattan itself is twenty-two square miles, and one-point-six million people live there.”

“Whoa,” she said again, her breath fogging up the window. “How big is San Antonio?”

A quick search and a brain-crushing second later, I said, “Four hundred sixty square miles and one-point-four million people.”

“No way.” Her eyes were still on the horizon. “There aren’t any trees.”

“Probably only in Central Park.”

She frowned. “Can I climb them?”

I offered a smile, but it was sad. “I don’t know, kiddo. We’ll find out.”

Meg sat back in her seat and unfurled her map of Manhattan, marked with a red marker at places of her interest and blocking of sections of the city for a purpose unknown to me. She dug her old calculator out of her backpack and, lost in thought, began punching out numbers and jotting down notes in the corner of her map over the Bronx.

There wasn’t much to see in Boerne, my little hometown just outside of San Antonio in the hot Texas Hill Country. It was beautiful in the way wild country was—with scrubby mesquite trees, rolling grasses the color of a sun-faded paper bag, and forests of oak with pine-lined spring rivers. The area boasted the only hills to speak of in the entire state. Those hills were rocky and craggy, the definition of untamed land, making it easy to think back a hundred years, two hundred years, and imagine what it was like to live on the frontier.

But when you lived your whole life in a place like that—one untouched by time, one that never changed, even when you did, even when you lost the things you held most dear—it sometimes didn’t feel like enough. You could feel your insignificance in that sort of place.

I was reminded of the time my family drove down to Galveston to go to the beach. I’d stood at the shore and dipped my hands in the gritty, silty sand, letting it slip through my fingers as I considered how small I was. I realized my life was just a single heartbeat in the life of the universe.

The world was infinite, and I was not.

You see, my heart was full of holes.

The one I’d been born with destined me to a life indoors with my family, my books, and my music to keep me happy. It stopped me from running barefoot through the fields behind our house, like Meg. It prevented me from tubing down the river with the kids my age. It restricted me to a life of physical inactivity, so I put everything I could into occupying my heart and soul and mind instead.

The hole in my heart where my father used to be wasn’t so easy to accept. People kept telling me I would survive his death just as I survived my physical condition—with patience and acceptance and that ever-marching time. Part of me believed them.

The rest of me knew better.

My only comfort was a vow I’d made from a pew in the tiny church somewhere far behind me; I would honor my father’s life by living mine.

I thought I’d been doing just that. I’d read thousands of books. I’d spent even more time with my fingers on ivory piano keys. I’d visited every spot on the globe through Meg's voracious explorations with thanks to National Geographic and the internet. But as we drove into New York City, I realized I hadn’t seen or done anything at all.

That would all change soon enough. I was eager and ardent, armed with a list of firsts to check off, diligently jotted in the notebook in my back pocket where it had been since Daddy died.

Through the tunnel we went, under the Hudson, into the city. Meg and I were the only ones who spoke; the car had otherwise gone silent since the city came into view. She busied me with questions I could only answer with the help of the internet.

When was the Lincoln Tunnel built? 1934. How did they build it? With enough difficulty that the lead engineer died of a heart attack at forty-one. What kind of metal is on top of the Chrysler Building? Non-rusting stainless steel.

And on and on.

Unlike the silent front seats, I was happy to fill the air with something, anything to separate us from the truth of our feelings, which followed us like a balloon nearly out of helium, hovering too close to the ground to be joyful.

It took us an hour to get to the Upper East Side where my uncle lived, passing so many people, so many streets, so many buildings that the magnitude of the city set my mind spinning. Through Central Park we went, looping around Madison to Fifth Avenue, the park on one side and beautiful old buildings on the other.

My heart skipped and skittered as Elle pulled to a stop in front of the building where we’d live now that we had no home.

A doorman in a forest-green suit that matched the building’s awning smiled amiably, moving to open Elle’s door and mine at the same time.

“Hello, ladies. Might you be the Daschles?”

“Yes,” I said with a smile as I took his offered hand and stepped onto the curb.

“Oh, good. Mrs. Jennings has been anxiously awaiting you. I think she’s called down a dozen times.”

I laughed.

“This hour.” He winked and snapped to attention, following Elle around the car to the trunk. “Name’s George,” he said, touching the bill of his hat with two fingers. “Oh, let me get that, Miss Daschle.”

“Thank you.” Elle stepped back as he unfurled Mama’s wheelchair.

Meg slid out of the seat and into my side, her lips together and hands twined, her eagerness gone so completely, it was as if it had never existed.

George unloaded our suitcases as Elle helped Mama into her chair, but when he closed the trunk and I caught sight of Mama’s face, I found it touched with pride and pain and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

He rolled all four of the suitcases to the door with the four of us in his wake. The elaborate foyer of the building was a landscape of marble and mirror and soft lights and glass fixtures, like a palace out of a fairy tale, lavish and rich and utterly alien.

When we were in the elevator, George asked about the drive and what we’d seen. Elle dutifully answered him, but the rest of us were turned so inward, we weren’t listening. But when the elevator doors opened, we found ourselves in a tornado of chaos.

The door in the entryway to the penthouse swung open, and half a dozen barking dogs bounded out, tails wagging and tongues lolling. Behind them was our aunt Susan, her cheeks high and flushed, hands clasped at her breasts. None of her attention was paid to the dogs as they jumped and licked and barked in a chorus.

Meg knelt and threw her arms around a golden retriever’s neck, her smile wide and eyes shining. A little Maltese hopping around my feet was too sweet for words. I had to pick him up and let him lick my face.

The comfort and joy I felt was immediate, second only to the hug our effervescent aunt gave me.

“Oh, I’ve just been waiting for you all day. I’ve nearly driven myself mad. I think I fluffed the couch pillows a thousand times,” she cooed as she rocked me, holding me against her soft body.

I felt like a child, warm and protected and right and good, and I found I couldn’t stop smiling or shake the feeling that I might also burst into tears.

She leaned back, proudly looking me over before moving to my sisters. We were still half in the elevator, though Elle had managed to push Mama into the entryway.

Susan greeted Mama last, kneeling in front of her with her eyes full of tears and a smile on her face.

“Oh, Emily,” she said, holding Mama’s hands in hers.

“Hello, Susan.” The words trembled. So did my heart.

“I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

Mama didn’t answer, just looked down at their hands; her chin flexed as she nodded.

“Well,” Susan said as she stood, not dwelling, not pressing, “I am so happy to see you, I can barely stand it. Come, come in. Let me show you around.” She ushered us in, the dogs running around our feet like a rolling ocean of fur.

George put our suitcases inside, and with the tip of his hat, he left.

“John!” Susan called. “John, they’re here!”

My uncle walked in, tall and handsome with hair the color of graphite. His hands rested casually in his slacks pockets, and the smile on his face merrily crinkled his eyes. “Oh, I heard. I’m sure the whole building heard,” he said on a chuckle, stopping in front of us to look us over. “It’s only been a few weeks since the funeral, but it feels like ages.” He turned to Mama, kneeling like his wife had.

“Thank you so much for this, John,” Mama said.

“Please,” he offered gently, “I’ve been trying to help for years. I’m just glad you finally accepted.”

We had no choice, Mama’s eyes said.

He squeezed her hand and stood. “We’ve been hard at work getting your rooms ready. And by we, I mean Susan.”

Susan laughed at that. “It’s true. My children are all grown and gone, and I find myself so very bored. Redecorating was a welcome distraction, and now, I’ll have your company to occupy me.” She pulled Meg into her side and smiled conspiratorially. “And I’ll have someone to eat cookie dough and ice cream with. Mr. Jennings hates sweets; can you imagine? I’m convinced he’s not human.”

Meg smiled back, though her lips were together, her spirit muted.

We followed Aunt Susan through the massive house, through rooms that felt rich without being overbearing or stuffy. The living room with its tall windows and grand molding, framing views of Central Park below. The library with every wall packed to the ceiling, which was so high, a ladder on a rail was necessary to reach the top shelf. A large room that seemed to have no purpose other than to house the grand piano. My heart ba-dumped at the sight of it, my fingers itching to brush the cool ivory keys, my ears perking with imaginings of the rich sound they would make.

But Susan didn’t stop, just chattered on, sweeping us through the house. We met the cook and the maid, who both had friendly faces that wore warm smiles, though they said nothing. It was impossible to; Susan filled the air in her genial way, in the way you felt compelled to be silent and attend without frustration, as it seemed to come from her very heart.

The bedrooms were on the other side of the house, she explained as I tried to grasp how a home of this beauty and magnitude existed at the top of a towering building.

Our rooms lined a hallway that dead-ended, marking the end of the eternal space.

Susan had repurposed and redecorated all the rooms with each of us in mind. Her cheeks rosy and face alight, she told us of the details and watched our expressions for our approval. And approval there was.

Meg bounded into her room, her excitement found at last and bubbling out of her. A four-poster stood in the middle of the space with a beautiful old world map hanging over the head of the bed. One wall was lined with bookshelves, which seemed to be geared toward exploration, stacked with almanacs and National Geographic books, encyclopedias and atlases, books of discovery and adventure and mysteries of the world. Curios dotted the room—antique globes, ships in bottles, compasses, and more. In the corner near the window stood a small table topped with a huge Victorian goldfish bowl with fat, goggle-eyed fish swimming inside.

“Fish!” Meg gasped as she ran over to peer inside. “Have you named them?”

Susan laughed. “That honor is all yours, my dear.” She motioned us on.

Elle’s room was lovely—simple and practical and classic—with crisp white sheets and pillows and blankets in creams and grays of various textures—linen and velvet and silk—which gave the room a depth the inattentive eye might miss.

And my room…well, it was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

The ceilings in all the rooms were high—fourteen feet or more, if I had to guess—and in this room with its dove-gray walls against snowy white trim, they seemed even taller. The curtains pooled on the ground, the bedskirt made of chiffon whispered against the rug, and the bed itself was tall and piled high with decadent pillows. The quilt looked to be made of layers of lace, like a petticoat. A wardrobe against the wall was painted with a quiet branch, dotted with broad leaves and magnolia flowers with a little wren on one jutting crook.

But the best part was the antique piano.

I rushed over to the spinet, breathless as I opened it and laid my fingers on the keys, my heart thumping and hands tingling. It was too beautiful, too generous, too much. And I was overwhelmed with feeling—with my losses and pain and hope and gratitude. Tears fell, unashamed and unabashed, as I turned to my aunt.

“Thank you,” I said on a whisper, the two simple words not nearly enough.

“No thanks required,” she said, holding back tears of her own. “It will be nice to have music in our house again. And I know it seems silly to have two pianos in the house, but this way, you can play all you like without having to endure anyone’s company but your own.” She took a steadying breath and clasped her hands. “Come, Emily. Yours is last.”

They left me alone in my new room, and I made no motion to follow them, too entranced, too surprised to leave. Instead, I sat on the gray velvet piano bench facing into the room, my eyes roaming every corner, every detail. Over the shelves stacked with books of poetry, across the gilded mirrors and framed book illustrations of fairy tales.

She had very aptly looked into my heart and soul and fashioned a room that spoke directly to me. It was sorcery or magic, and as deeply as I felt right in that room, resistance slipped over me.

Because this wasn’t a fairy tale, and nothing in this room was mine.

I felt my losses so acutely in that moment that it set my heart galloping like a pony missing a leg, staggering and clumsy. Everything I had known was gone, and it would never be reclaimed. I was in a room I didn’t know in a home that wasn’t mine, relying solely on the kindness and generosity of strangers to care for those who meant the most to me in the world.

As perfect as the room and the welcome were, in that moment, it felt like a lie, like a faerie trick. A gilded cage. There was no way out and nowhere to go.

I heard my father, saw his face, felt the whisper of his breath against my ear when I closed my eyes.

Don’t look back, Annie. That’s a sure-fire way to end up tripping on what’s in front of you.

I swiped at my tears, spinning around on the piano bench when I heard Susan making her way back down the hallway, pushing Mama in her wheelchair. They didn’t stop, thankfully. I laid my fingers on the keys again, this time to play.

My heart opened up when the first resonating note struck, my sadness and loss slipping out of that thumping muscle and through my veins, into my fingers. Mendelssohn filled the room, the deep and slow melancholy leaving me with every note—notes that I knew by heart and memory—leaving me with every tear. And when my trembling fingers rested, the last note hanging in the air, I was lighter than before.

Music was the conduit for the abundance of feeling I had been blessed and cursed with. For my heart not only contained holes, but was too big for its own good.

I closed the lid and stood, making my way toward the sound of my aunt’s voice.

Susan was sitting at the head of the table in the dining room with the Maltese in her lap and Mama and Elle on either side of her, each with a steaming mug in front of them. The table looked like a smile with a missing tooth where Mama sat, the chair gone to leave a gap for her wheelchair. She still hadn’t gotten used to it. Her hands were blistered from trying to navigate on her own, her body and soul smaller than they’d been before. And when I took the seat next to her, her eyes begged me to save her from pretending, from the false smile and small talk.

I reached for her hand in the hopes that she could read my intention to do just that.

“And tonight,” Susan said happily as she stroked the half-asleep dog, “John’s associate and his wife—the Ferrars—are coming by for dinner. We just couldn’t wait for Frank to meet you, though I must say,” she leaned in, lowering her voice, “Fanny is insufferable. The woman wouldn’t know happiness if it crawled in her lap and purred.” She laughed pleasantly at herself.

I found myself smiling simply because Susan was so agreeable despite the fact that we were travel-worn and rumpled and in no state or mood to entertain.

Mama squeezed my fingers as if she’d been thinking the same thing, but Elle, with her ever-present smile of platitude and concession, said, “We’ll be glad to meet them.”

Susan smiled, pleased. “Wonderful!” Her plump fingers ran through the dog’s cottony fur. “So, what would you girls like to do now that you’re here? Anything in particular you’d like to see?”

“Only everything,” I said on a laugh, my smile spreading.

Susan’s chuckle was an echo of mine. “Yes, only that.”

Feeling momentarily brave, I added, “I think I’d like to find a job.”

It was one of the items on my list of things I’d never done, and I was determined to check them off once we made it to New York. Thus, now.

Mama’s face grew stern. “Annie, we’ve talked about this.”

If it was at the top of my list, you could be sure it was at the tippy-top of Mama’s list of nevers.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like I’m asking to run the New York City Marathon, Mama. There have to be a million jobs in the city that don’t require cardio.”

She huffed. “You have to be the only teenager I’ve ever known who wants to work.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m not a baby.”

“Eighteen is still a teenager.”

“Eighteen is when most people are moving out,” I said a little louder and sharper than I’d meant to. So I took a breath. “I’m just saying, it would be nice to have a little independence.”

“You worked at the library last summer,” she volleyed.

“I volunteered. It’s not the same, and you know it.”

Susan brightened up, her spine straightening. “Oh! You know, there’s a bookstore just straight across the park from here, near Columbia. A good friend of mine’s son owns it. I hear it’s quite the spot for people your age. It’s called Wasted Words, and it’s a bookstore that’s a bar! Can you imagine?”

My eyes widened. “Yes. Yes, I can.”

“It’s just a ten-minute drive from here.”

I frowned. “How long is the walk?”

She tottered her head back and forth. “Oh, maybe twenty minutes.”

I sagged in my chair when Mama gave me a look.

“Too far to walk every day,” she said with some finality.

And it was the truth. I couldn’t walk more than a couple of blocks before ending up winded and colorless and drenched in sweat.

But Susan, my newfound savior, waved a hand. “We have a driver who can take her if she really wants to work there.”

“See, Mama?” I gestured to Susan, as if there was no way Mama could possibly argue, my hope flapping proudly at the top of my flagpole.

If only.

She sighed with a note of impatience. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said, which meant, Absolutely not, and I’ll tell you why when Susan’s out of earshot.

“How about you, Elle?” Susan asked.

Elle blinked at her for a moment. “I…I don’t really know. I’d like to get a job too, but I’m not exactly sure where to start.”

“What kind of work do you think you’d like?”

“Well, since I graduated, I worked at a small insurance company in Boerne, mostly as a secretary.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Elle nodded. “I suppose so. I liked the order of it, the organization of dates and calls and files. It felt…safe. Is that silly?” she asked, laughing as if it were.

I laughed myself. “Safe because it’s boring. The Petersons were lucky to find anyone who could sit in that musty old office every day and file papers.”

“Well, I liked it,” she said. “There’s something comforting about routine and rules and repetition.”

Susan chuckled and reached for her hand. “Comfort of habit. Yes, I quite know what you mean.” She brightened up again. “You know, I’d bet John could place you at one of the magazines. They’re always looking for good executive assistants, and it sounds like you might just be perfect for the job.”

Elle flushed, her lips parting in surprise as she stammered, “Oh…ah, I’m not…I don’t believe I’m experienced enough to work at that level. Really. I think the Petersons’ phone rang five times a week, max.”

I snickered. “And three of those were from Gigi Blanchard to gossip with Mrs. Peterson.”

But Susan wouldn’t have it. “I’m not worried about you at all. Anyone who enjoys secretarial work would be welcomed; I’m certain of it. I’ll talk with John.”

“Really, you don’t have to do that,” Elle insisted, the color in her cheeks deepening another shade.

“I don’t mind at all!” Susan said, oblivious to Elle’s discomfort. “We’re happy to help however we can, including your place here. For years and years, John has wanted to do something, anything to help you. It just wasn’t right—the way your parents turned you out, Emily. None of us have ever forgiven them for that.”

Mama stiffened next to me, her back straight and that false smile on her lips. “It was a long time ago.”

“But hardly forgotten,” Susan said, not unkindly.

She was so forward—too forward for me in that moment of exhaustion. The family I knew was small, only the nucleus of my sisters and parents, and opening that business up to Susan felt like an intrusion even though she was family too.

So much change, so quickly.

I turned to Mama, eager to escape. “How are you feeling?”

Relief filled her face up, softening it. “I could use a little nap, I think.”

I stood. “I’ll help you. Excuse us, Aunt Susan,” I added.

“Of course!” she said with a smile. “Dinner is at seven. Just let me know if you need anything at all.”

“We will.”

“And you’ll stay and chat with me, won’t you, Elle?” she asked eagerly.

“I’d love to,” she answered with a polite smile as I rolled Mama away.

When we were out of earshot, Mama said, “We’re horrible, cruel women for leaving Elle in there.”

I chuckled. “Elle would sacrifice herself for your welfare any day of the week.”

She sighed at that. “This…this is almost too much.”

My throat tightened, and I swallowed to open it back up as I turned into her room. “I know.”

I pushed her to the bed and turned it down before bending. She hooked her arm around my neck, bracing herself on the mattress top to hitch herself up with my help, dragging her limp legs behind her.

I tucked them under the covers as she watched with shining eyes.

Everyone said we looked alike—the same unruly blonde hair, the same slender frame, the same green eyes—but it was our smiles that I always thought made us look so much alike. We had the same shine—or we had before my father died.

I imagined her in a bed like this, in a room like this, long ago—before she had fallen in love and left New York behind. I imagined her rich and cosmopolitan, like a ghost twin of the simple, unfussy, easygoing woman I knew, the woman now dimmed and dulled by loss.

“I hate this, Annie. I hate everything about it.” Her words were as shaky as my breath.

I sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hands in mine. “Me, too, Mama. It’s…” I paused, thinking. “It’s too confusing, too conflicting. It’s a relief to have help, to be in such a beautiful home with such beautiful things, but everything has changed. This isn’t home.”

“It is now. We have nowhere else to go.” Her tears fell freely, her fingers squeezing mine, her sadness making her look young and vulnerable and small, propped up in that big bed, surrounded by pillows.

“I know that too. And I know we’ll find a way through it all.”

“One foot in front of the other, as your daddy would say.”

My gaze dropped to our hands, catching on her simple gold wedding band. “I wish he were here,” I said barely above a whisper.

“So do I.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, chasing our thoughts through the maze of our minds.

When Daddy died, there hadn’t been enough money tied up in the house, not enough invested in Social Security, not enough shelled away in retirement. He was too young, and in his youth, he thought he had more time.

We all had.

Now, Mama needed full-time care, and Meg was still so young, years and years from being on her own. I had no job, no means to support myself, never mind Mama and Meg too, which was another reason I wanted so badly to find something, anything that could help ease that burden. We didn’t have the means to survive on our own. All we had left was each other.

I only wished that were enough.

A knock came from behind us, and we looked to the sound. Elle seemed both exasperated and relieved as she stepped in and closed the door.

“Well, I’ve gotten us off the hook for dinner,” she said quietly as she sat on the other side of Mama’s bed. “I convinced Aunt Susan that you needed rest and that we could all use a minute to settle in before entertaining. Put that way, she agreed and rescheduled for next week.”

I shook my head, frustrated and edging on agitated. My flair for drama and saying exactly what I felt won over my ability to be reasonable. “I know she means well, but we’ve been driving for days. How could she not understand we’d be exhausted?”

Elle sighed. “Honestly, you should have seen her when I offered a little perspective. She was embarrassed and apologetic and…” She sighed again. “She felt like a fool.”

The thought quieted my anger, replacing it with guilt. “This…this is so…” My throat squeezed closed.

Elle reached for my hand. “I know. And Susan and John have saved us in a way. They’ve protected us from an uncertain fate, given us the chance to live well, for no other reason than kindness. Look around; look at what Susan has done just to make us feel at home and welcome.”

A shuffling came from under the bed, and Meg’s head and shoulders emerged from under the bedskirt with a National Geographic book in front of her, split open to a spread about octopuses.

“My room is one of the best things to ever happen to me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I like Aunt Susan. She gives good hugs and smells like flowers.”

We all chuckled, and Elle stood, moving to Mama’s suitcase to flip it on its side and unzip it. “I know it’s hard, but it could be so much harder.”

Mama nodded, but she still looked defeated and deflated.

“How are you, Mama?” I asked gently.

Her green eyes met mine. “I don’t know how to feel. Mostly, I think I’m numb. Like part of my brain is driving my body, giving the absolute minimum to consider participation, while the rest of me has retreated somewhere deep inside. Because when I reach in and think or feel, it’s too much. Too much—” The words were cut off by a sob that she swallowed, but her tears fell, unconfined.

Those tears drew my own from the well that I realized would never run dry. “We’re gonna be okay,” I said, wanting to believe it.

“I hope so,” she whispered, trying to smile.

“We will,” Elle added from the other side of the bed. “We’ll survive. If Daddy were here, he wouldn’t let us give up. He’d tell us to find joy every day, to hang on to each other, to turn our faces to the sun and warm ourselves with hope. So that’s what we should do.”

And we all knew she was right, though not a single one of our faces said we believed we could do it.

We’d try anyway.

Elle smiled, a comforting expression that coaxed a smile from my own lips, small as it might be. “I think a good night’s sleep in a real bed in a real room will do us all good. Annie will be spreading her sunshine again soon enough, and Meg will tell us the wonders of the deep ocean. And Mama will smile and laugh like she used to, and we’ll all love each other.”

“Well, I have been reading about anglerfish,” Meg said from the floor after a pause. “Did you know they can eat fish twice their size?”

I laughed. “You have something in common; you can eat a pizza twice your size.”

“Dare me to try!”

I winked. “Double dog dare.”

Her face brightened as she scrambled to her feet. “Oh, man, now I’m asking Aunt Susan if we can have pizza for dinner.”

“I’m sure she has something planned, baby,” Mama chided.

But Meg shrugged, grinning. “I’ll tell her I’ll name a fish after her.” And with that, she bounded out of the room.

I looked from Mama, whose smile finally touched her eyes—not deep down, but enough—to Elle, who watched us with a veil of love and pride that covered her own sadness.

As for me, I found Elle’s words to be true, simply by her having spoken them. And my heart lifted, that sagging balloon rising, warmed by the sun and reaching for the forgotten clouds.