We relocate to the en-suite bathroom which is bigger than my old studio apartment. I lift Ben onto the counter and she sits there swinging her legs happily while I gather supplies.
Leave-in conditioner.
Wide-tooth comb.
Curl cream.
I start sectioning her hair and she watches me in the mirror with those big eyes that still sometimes go distant when she remembers the woods.
The bear.
But today she’s present. Excited. Six years old on her birthday with her whole life ahead of her.
“Your hair is so pretty,” I tell heras I work the product through in careful sections. “You know what the trick is?”
“What?”
“You have to be gentle. Can’t force curls to do what you want. You have to work with them.”
She considers this with the seriousness only a six-year-old can muster. “Like being brave?”
Smart kid.
“Exactly like being brave,” I agree. “You can’t force yourself to not be scared. You just have to be gentle with the scared parts and do the thing anyway.”
In the mirror I catch Marco standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame with the sleeves of his Henley rolled up.
I stare at those hunky forearms of his, remembering how the muscles corded when he squeezed his fingers in my hair while I sucked his big, fat—
Focus!
Our eyes meet in the mirror and he smiles. The kind of smile that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I turn a bright share of red and turn my attention back to Ben’s hair before I get too distracted.
Twenty minutes later her curls are perfect. Bouncy and defined and framing her face like a little halo.
She studies herself in the mirror. Touches her hair carefully. Her expression fills with joy.
“I look like you!” she squeals happily.
The words hit me harder than they should and I nearly crack again.
“Youlook like you,” I correct gently. I crouch down to her eye level. “Beautiful and brave.”
Ben throws her arms around my neck and holds on tight. “I love you.”
Behind us Marco makes a sound. When I glance over his eyes are suspiciously bright.
He clears his throat. “Piccola. I have something for you.”
Ben pulls back and looks at him curiously.
Marco retrieves a small wooden box from the bedroom. He returns, then kneels in front of Ben and opens it carefully.
Inside is the hunting knife he keeps on his nightstand. The one with the old leather ornamental sheath and the worn handle.
“This was my father’s,” Marco says quietly. His voice has that roughness that means he’s feeling things he doesn’t quite have words for. “And his father’s before him. In our family we have a tradition. When you face something that scares you and survive, you’ve earned your rite of passage.”
