“Because it’s true, and that’s terrifying?”
I slump back against the booth. “Yes.”
Sarah is quiet for a moment. She holds her coffee mug as the waitress Ophelia, refills it. “Thanks, Ophelia. We’ll take the check when you have a sec.”
“Sure thing, Sarah. You two have an amazing day!”
When Ophelia is gone, Sarah speaks again, her voice gentler. “Daisy Bowles. When was the last time you did something just becauseyouwanted it, and I’m not talking about eating ice cream for dinner on a Wednesday night?”
When was the last time? The tattoo, obviously. But before that? I try to remember a moment—any moment—where I chose something purely for myself, without hearing my father’s voice listing all the reasons my choice was wrong.
I come up empty.
“The tattoo was a start,” Sarah says softly. “Maybe texting him is the next step.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re allowed to want things for yourself. You’re allowed to go after them.”
I don’t say anything. Twenty-six years of being careful, of smoothing edges, of making myself small enough to fit into the spaces other people left for me. And here’s Sarah, telling me I’m allowed to pursue what I want. It’s not the first time she’s said this, but right now, it feels like I really need to listen for once.
“What if he’s not interested?” The words come out smaller than I intend. “What if I’m just building this up in my head?”
“Then at least you’ll know.” She squeezes my hand again. “And that’s better than spending the rest of your life wondering.”
The children’ssection of the library smells like crayons and picture books, and it’s my favorite combination in the world.
Story time ended twenty minutes ago, but a handful of kids linger at the craft tables, coloring pictures of cats. Today’s book wasTabby and the Lion,a story about a cat who learns to be brave, and now the room is scattered with drawings of orange tabbies and yellow lions, and one very enthusiastic scribble that might be a cat or might be a potato.
I move between the tables, admiring their work and encouraging the children’s creativity. This is the part of my job I love most. The pure, uncomplicated joy of children who haven’t yet learned to doubt themselves.
“Miss Daisy?”
I turn to find Emily staring at my collar with intense curiosity. She’s seven years old, missing her two front teeth, absolutely obsessed with anything cat-related, and has the eyes of a hawk.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Do you have a boo-boo?” She points at my neckline, where the edge of the bandage peeks out from beneath my shirt. “My mom puts bandages on my boo-boos.”
I crouch down to her level, smiling. “It’s not exactly a boo-boo. It’s going to be a kitten when it’s finished.”
Her eyes go wide. “Akitten? On yourskin?”
“It’s called a tattoo. Like a drawing that stays on your skin forever.”
“Forever and ever?”
“Forever and ever.”
Emily considers this with the gravity only a seven-year-old can muster. Then she frowns. “Why didn’t you finish it?”
“Well. It hurt, and I got scared. Sometimes things take more than one try to get right.”
“You need to be more like Tabby!” Emily exclaims, and I laugh. She’s not wrong.
Despite how much I wanted the tattoo, I let the pain drive me away from something I wanted.
But I don’t have to let it end there.
“Will you finish it?” Emily asks.
I look down at her earnest face, at the crayon clutched in her small hand, at the purple cat she’s drawn with whiskers longer than its body.
