I demonstrate. Her hair responds beautifully. The curls start forming these perfect ringlets.
Thank God.
I didn’t completely destroy a five-year-old’s hair.
Gold star for Jessica Riley.
I can only imagine how stressful a trip to a professional hair salon would be for the poor girl. Let alone having her hair styled by a stranger.
“Your turn,” I say, putting more cream in her hands.
She copies me. Warming it. Scrunching. Her little fingers work through the curls with surprising care. “Like this?”
“Perfect. You’re a natural.”
We finish together. I use a microfibertowel to scrunch out excess water. Then I show her the silk pillowcase I brought.
“This is for sleeping. It keeps your curls from getting all crazy overnight.”
“Mama had one,” Ben says quietly.
My chest tightens. “Yeah?”
“Daddy keeps it in his room. In his drawer.”
Oh.
That’s not emotionally complicated at all.
I clear my throat. “Well, now you have your own. We can do a pineapple before bed. Want me to show you?”
“What’s a pineapple?”
I gather her curls loosely on top of her head. “See? Like a pineapple. Keeps everything protected while you sleep.”
She reaches up to feel it. Smiles. “I like it.”
“Me too.”
She looks at herself in the mirror. Then she spins, watching the ringlets bounce.
“Like Mama’s,” she breathes.
And there it is. The thing I’ve been trying not to think about since I started this whole process.
I’m not replacing her mother. Can’t replace her mother. Wouldn’t even try.
But I’m here. Teaching her the things Isotta would have taught her if she’d lived.
When you realize you’re accidentally becoming important to a kid who already lost someone important.
“You look so beautiful,” I tell her. And mean it.
She throws her arms around my neck. The hug is sudden and fierce and completely unexpected and brings tears to my eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my shoulder.
I hug her back. Try not to cry. Fail a little bit.
