“Then she’ll have sugar and dye for breakfast,” I said, grabbing the bowl from the counter and setting it down in front of Ava like a declaration of independence.
My mother stared at me for a long, tense beat and then, as if to remind me who was still queen of this kitchen, she straightened her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “don’t come crying to me when she refuses to eat anything that isn’t shaped like a cartoon character.”
“I won’t,” I said quietly.
The silence stretched as Ava crunched her cereal with gusto, milk sloshing.
When it was time to leave for school, my mother stood by the door, fussing with Ava’s backpack straps. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” she said, smoothing her hair.
“No, we won’t,” I said.
Her hand stilled. “Eleanor?—”
“Please don’t.” I met her gaze, tired but steady. “You don’t have to fix her. She’s not broken.”
Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she kissed Ava’s head, murmured something about “good choices,” and watched as we headed out the door.
As soon as the cool air hit my face, I exhaled the kind of deep breath I could only seem to take outside this house.
Behind us, the curtains shifted, and I could swear I saw her watching through the window.
Ava was quiet on the drive to school, staring out the window, her headphones glowing faintly green. I kept my hands tight on the wheel, still wound up from breakfast, trying to breathe past the familiar guilt.
When we pulled into the drop-off lane, the chaos of the morning rush hit, kids spilling out of minivans and SUVs, backpacks swinging, parents calling last-minute reminders that would be forgotten before the doors even shut.
Ava hesitated, clutching her bag strap. “You’ll pick me up?”
“Always,” I said. “And remember?—”
She cut me off with a sigh. “One step at a time.”
“Right.” I smiled, even though my throat felt tight.
She pushed open the door and slid out, careful as ever, adjusting her headphones like armor.
I watched as she stood on the curb, scanning the crowd, and then a little girl with bright pink sneakers and a messy braid waved at her.
“Hey, Ava!”
Ava blinked, startled, then gave the smallest, shyest wave back. The girl grinned and started chattering as they walked toward the entrance together.
Watching her walk away, not alone, not shrinking, felt like the first real victory I’d had in months.
Then, as the line inched forward, I caught sight of a familiar flash of color on the far side of the lot.
The boy in the rainbow tutu.
He was holding hands with a woman I hadn’t seen before. She had a confident smile, jeans, and a tank top that saidReaper Fan. She crouched to fix the strap on his backpack, and he leaned forward, kissed her cheek, and twirled in a happy little spin before they started toward the school.
He jumped. She laughed.
And there it was again, that same ache from the derby. Watching them, the simple warmth between them, made my chest go tight. I wanted that for Ava. For me. A life that didn’t have to fit in neat, polished boxes.
I was still staring when the car behind me honked, long and impatient.
I jumped, flustered, and waved a quick apology before pulling forward, cheeks burning.
But as I drove away, I caught one last glimpse of the tutu, a small flash of color among the crowd, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, it made my eyes sting.
