I could see part of myself in her.Where was her real mother? Who’d abandon such a kind kid?
Millie nodded earnestly. "She said fancy soup is paying extra for a pretty can."
I laughed, surprising myself. "Your mama sounds like she was very smart."
"She was." Millie took another careful spoonful. "She's in heaven now. She went there when I was little."
Ah.A familiar feeling of grief visited my consciousness again. It was that foolish part of me that hoped for something better, aching for her.
"I'm so sorry, Millie."
"It's okay." But her voice wobbled on the words. "Daddy says she's watching me all the time.” I watched with warmth in my chest as she shoved another spoonful of the soup into her mouth. “But Aunt Victoria says that's silly and dead people can't watch anything."
I wanted to find this woman and havewords.Lengthy, detailed words about what happens to adults who emotionally abuse grieving children.
"Well," I said carefully, "I think your daddy is right. I think the people we love always stay with us, even when we can't see them."
Millie looked at me with those huge gray-blue eyes. "Do you have someone in heaven, too?"
"I do." I touched the locket at my throat. "My mom."
"Does she watch you?"
"I hope so." I smiled, though it hurt. "I like to think she does."
We finished our soup in comfortable silence after that. Millie scraped her bowl clean, and when I offered her the last bit from the pot, she shook her head solemnly.
"You should have it, Miss Claire. You need to eat, too."
This child."I'm okay, sweetheart. You finish it."
"We can share?"
So we shared the last few spoonfuls, passing the pot between us, and something about the simple act made my eyes sting.
"Okay," I said, setting the empty dishes aside. "What do you say we find something to watch on TV while we figure out our next steps?"
"Can we watch cartoons?"
"We can try." I reached for the remote. "Fair warning, my TV is pretty old, and I can only get one channel right now. So we'll have to see what's on."
The ancient television fizzed to life with static before resolving into a fuzzy picture. Some home renovation show was playing, a woman literally weeping with joy over granite countertops and a kitchen island the size of my entire apartment.
"Must be nice," I muttered.
"What's nice?" Millie asked.
"Having a kitchen island." I clicked through, but there was nothing else. "And, you know. Being able to cry happy tears over home improvements instead of... other kinds of tears."
Millie tilted her head. "Are you sad, Miss Claire?"
"Little bit," I admitted. "But I’ll be okay.”
She smiled and snuggled deeper into the blanket, leaning against my side like we'd known each other for years instead of hours. On screen, the renovation show hosts were now arguing about whether to knock down a wall.
"Knock it down," Millie said decisively.
"You think?"
