"What's the plan, kiddo?"
"We're making flowers." She said this like it was obvious. Like I should instinctively know what that meant.
"Okay. Flowers. How do we?—"
"First, we cut petals." She held up a piece of pink paper. "Like this shape. See? Round on top, pointy on the bottom. Like a teardrop."
"Got it." I picked up the scissors with what I hoped was confidence. The plastic loops bit into my fingers immediately, absurdly small. I positioned the paper, lined up the blades, and squeezed.
The cut was jagged, uneven. More lightning bolt than petals. More crime scene than craft project.
Sarah tilted her head, studying my creation. "That's... interesting."
"Interesting bad or interesting good?"
"That's... um..." She tilted her head, studying it seriously. "Maybe it's like a really old leaf? Like from a really windy tree?"
Diplomatic. She'd learned that from somewhere, and it certainly wasn't me.
I tried again, determined. The paper buckled and tore with a sickening rip, coming apart in my hands like wet tissue. Across the room, I caught Ms. Reed glancing our way, her expression curious. Great. More witnesses to my spectacular incompetence.
"Sorry," I muttered; my apology came out automatically.
"It's okay, Uncle C." Sarah gently extracted the scissors from my grip with the patient care of someone handling a confused, oversized animal. "Maybe you should do the glue instead. Glue is important too."
The glue stick was next. I twisted the base and a glob of white paste oozed enthusiastically over my thumb and forefinger. Cold, sticky, utterly foreign. I wiped it hastily on my jeans, leaving a conspicuous smear.
"Uncle C." Sarah's voice carried a note of genuine distress. "Those are your good jeans."
I looked down at the damage. "Do I have good jeans?"
"The ones that don't have holes. You wore the special ones today."
She was right. These were, technically, my dress jeans. The ones I wore to town when I wanted to make an effort. Now decorated with a generous streak of Elmer's finest.
"They'll wash," I said, without conviction.
"Glue doesn't wash out. It just gets crunchy."
At the table beside us, Steve was helping his daughter arrange petals into something that actually resembled a flower. His wife leaned in, laughing at something he murmured. Their daughter beamed up at both of them, basking in their combined attention.
I looked at Sarah. She was watching them too, her small shoulders dropping just a fraction. Her hands had gone still on the table.
I felt a hairline crack in my heart. A clean, sharp break right down the center.
Rebecca would have owned this day. My little sister would have been the mom covered in glitter and glue, making a magnificent mess and laughing the loudest. She'd have known exactly how to make a paper flower magical. She'd have turned this whole table into an explosion of creativity and joy.
"Uncle C?" Sarah's voice was very small. "Are we doing it wrong?"
"No, sweetheart." I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "We're doing just fine."
But we weren't. I could see it in the careful way she arranged her materials, the glances she kept stealing at the other tables. At all those mothers with their easy competence and their matching outfits and their complete certainty about how to do this.
Steve's wedding ring caught the light as he reached for more paper. I thought of another man, the one who should have been here. The "lone wolf forestry surveyor" who'd charmed my sister during his three-month assignment in our area. Turned out he was a family man from Michigan, living a careful double life. When I'd tracked him down after Rebecca died, looking for any help with her orphaned daughter, I got to know him for who he was.
"Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"My name is Cole Brennan. I'm Rebecca's brother. She's dead." I hadn't known how else to say it. "She had a daughter. Your daughter. I need to?—"
