“When did you learn to do that?”
“Bea and I practiced. She’sbetter than me.”
“Ah. That girl is alarmingly coordinated for someone so...”
“Artistic?”
“I was going to say chaotic.”
“People use that word a lot about Bea. Same thing, according to Anna.”
Fiona laughed — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled her eyes and made her look younger. Stella couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard that laugh. Before the twins, maybe. Before everything got complicated.
“I missed this,” Fiona said, still watching the screen.
Stella didn’t ask what “this” meant. She didn’t have to.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
Somewhere mid-episode, Fiona paused the show.
“I need to do something with my hands,” she announced. “I’m going to braid your hair.”
“What? No.”
“Yes. It’s too long. It’s everywhere. I can’t focus.”
“My hair isn’t the problem. You just want to play with it.”
“Both things can be true.” Fiona was already repositioning, patting the floor in front of the couch. “Sit. I’ll be gentle.”
Stella rolled her eyes but moved to the floor, her back against the couch, her mother’s knees on either side of her shoulders. Fiona’s fingers started working through her hair, separating sections, tugging gently at tangles.
“You’re terrible at this,” Stella said.
“I’m out of practice.”
“You were never good at it.”
“That’s not true. I braided your hair for that concert. The one with the sparkly headband.”
“I looked like a deranged fairy.”
“You looked adorable.”
“I looked like someone had attacked me with craft supplies.” But Stella was smiling. She remembered that concert. Year three. She’d sung a solo about a rainbow and forgotten the second verse and made up words that didn’t rhyme. Fiona had told her she was brilliant anyway.
“Hold still. You’re squirming.”
“Because you’re pulling.”
“I’m not pulling, I’m sectioning. There’s a difference.”
“Tell that to my scalp.”
Fiona tugged lightly in retaliation. Stella grabbed a pillow and swung it backward without looking.
“Hey!”
