“I have to work. Besides, you guys should spend some time alone. Just the three ofyou.”
I make a face. “We're not a family,” I say as I pick a raspberry from the bowl on the table and pop it into mymouth.
He twists at the waist, peering back at me with challenging eyes. “No?” He turns back to histask.
“No,” I repeat, my tonefirm.
“Then whatisyour idea offamily?”
His back is still to me. Maybe that’s why I feel free to say what’s going through my head. “Family is a Thomas Kincaidpicture.”
The stiffening of his shoulders is my only indication he’s heard me. After a moment, he asks, “What does a painting of a snowy cottage have to do withfamily?”
“It’s not the snowy cottage.” I already regret saying it. “It’s what’sinside.”
“And what’sthat?”
I pick at the red nail polish on my pinkie. I wish this conversation weren’thappening.
The scene is there, so realistic in my mind. I can see the fire blazing in the fireplace, feel the creamy pages of a book in my hands, smell the dinner in the oven. A meal prepared by my mother. The wood in the fireplace has been chopped by my father. All of this exists inside the snowycabin.
“Come on, Aubs.” My dad turns to face me, his voice gruff, but I know he’s not mad. His tone comes from a place ofuncertainty.
Gaze on my fingernail and the spot left bare by my peeling, I recite the scene I’ve envisioned. My eyes never leave him. His expression neverchanges.
He only moves when it’s time to grab plates. “I don't think what you're describing ever really existed. I think marketing companies created images of happy little families to drive youmad.”
“It exists and I missed it,” I mutter. Instantly I feel bad. I don't like telling my dad how I feel about it. It's not his fault sheleft.
“Sorry,Dad.”
“Don't be sorry to me. I'm not the one who you're denying afamily.”
I blow out a short breath. “What's that supposed tomean?”
“Just what it sounds like. Claire's real father is in the picture now. He may not be family to you, but he is toher.”
My dad doles out scrambled eggs onto plates and calls Claire. She skips in, smiling proudly. My eyes widen when I seewhy.
“You put on your own pants?” I go to her with my arms open. She nods and steps in. Her hair smells like the all-over baby wash I still use onher.
I pull back to look at her. “It's OK to ask for help while your arm is in the cast, Claire. Mommy and Grandpa don't mind helping youdress.”
“I like to do it myself.” She climbs onto her chair and picks up her fork. Her pajama shirt is still on. She definitely cannot manage that on herown.
“I understand.” I smile at her and eat my breakfast. Visions of Claire finagling her pants float through my head. While we're eating she tells my dad about every animal she plans to seetoday.
“Haven't you got that place memorized by now?” My dadlaughs.
“Yes,” Claire nods solemnly. “Are you comingtoo?”
“Not today, Claire Bear. Grandpa has a job to do.” He gets up from the table and takes our empty plates with him to the sink. “Someone has to keep the lights on.” I roll my eyes affectionately. It's his favorite joke. It's probably the favorite joke of every journeyman at every utility company that everexisted.
Leaving the dishes in the sink, he comes to the table and plants a kiss on each of our heads. “Have fun today, girls. Claire, tell your dad I said hello.” He gives me a meaningful look over the top of her head and walksout.
Claire finishes her eggs, and with a tug of my hand says, “Let's go,Mommy!”
“We need to change your shirt first.” I pinch one of the smiling moons on her nightshirt. She giggles and runs ahead to herroom.
