"Don't ever call this number again." His voice had gone ice-cold, barely audible. "I'm not risking my family for a kid I'm not even sure is mine."
The line had gone dead. I'd stood in my kitchen, Sarah asleep in a sling against my chest, and understood with perfect clarity: it was just us. The same way it had been just me and Rebecca, two kids grinding through the foster care system, finding our only solid ground in each other.
"Uncle C, you're squishing it."
I blinked, yanked back to the present. I'd been pressing a paper petal flat with my palm, my grip tightening without my noticing.
"I'm not squishing it. I'm... securing it."
"It's squished." She held up the crumpled evidence. "Like, really really squished."
"Sorry." That word was becoming a mantra. Every torn edge, every sticky mishap, every ruined petal—I was fumbling in the dark. I could keep her alive. I could make sure she had a roof, food, warm clothes, and safety. But this? Creating a moment of simple, happy childhood? I was completely, hopelessly useless.
"Hey, Sarah."
I looked up. Ms. Reed had materialized beside us, kneeling gracefully so she was at Sarah's eye level. She didn't look at me with pity or amusement. Her attention was entirely, completely on my niece.
"That purple paper is beautiful," she said warmly. "It would make a perfect center for a flower. Would you like me to help you with it? I'd really love to."
The kindness in her voice wasn't performative. It was real, an offer from one person to another, no strings attached. Sarah's head swiveled to me, her eyes wide with a silent, hopeful question.
Is this okay? Can I say yes?
My throat tightened painfully. I nodded, forcing my lips into what I hoped resembled a grateful smile.
"Okay,"
Sarah breathed, and the tension seeped out of her small frame like water from a sponge.
For the next fifteen minutes, I was a spectator to a different kind of competence entirely. Ms. Reed’s hands were sure, capable, confident with the flimsy materials. She didn't take over, instead she guided, made suggestions, let Sarah lead.
"What if we curl this edge with the pencil? Like this, see?"
"Like a real flower!" Sarah's voice lifted with pure wonder.
"Exactly like a real flower. Nature's the best artist there is. We're just copying her work."
"Can we add more purple?"
"It's your flower, sweetheart. You can add whatever you want."
Ms. Reed laughed when Sarah dropped a sequin, calling it a "runaway jewel" and making a show of searching for it under the table. She praised every choice Sarah made, no matter how chaotic, turning the messy project into something collaborative and joyful.
And Sarah bloomed. There was no other word for it. A lightness came over her. Just pure, unselfconscious joy I hadn't realized was missing from her usual quiet contentment. She chattered, she giggled, she held up her increasingly elaborate flower with pride that made my chest ache in an entirely new way.
This was what she needed. Not just supervision, but this gentle, patient creativity. This warmth I simply couldn't provide.
"Mr. Brennan?" Ms. Reed’s voice pulled me back. "Would you like to add something? Sarah's been saving the centerpiece just for you."
I looked at the flower, then at my glue-smeared, clumsy hands. "I don't think that's?—"
"Please, Uncle C?" Sarah held out a small purple circle, her eyes huge and hopeful. "You just have to stick it in the middle. It's the most important part."
"Just a dab of glue," Ms. Reed added, her tone gently encouraging. "Even happy accidents are welcome here."
I took the purple circle carefully. Applied glue, probably too much. Pressed it into the center of Sarah's paper flower with exaggerated care.
It stuck. Crooked, definitely off-center, but it stuck.
