“Yes, Alis. I have to believe in miracles,” she whispers back, hervoice choked with emotion. “Sometimes, it's all we have left to hold on to.”
Her words linger in the air, a fragile thread of hope, woven from love, resilience, and a desperate plea for God or the universe or fate to be kind. A whisper of faith that miracles can happen, that Belle will wake up, that our family will be whole again. A desperate grasp onto hope, because sometimes, hope is the only thing stronger than fear. It’s a bridge to tomorrow, an anchor in the storm, a beacon in the darkness.
We hold onto each other, a pillar of support in a trembling world, holding onto the glimmer of hope that flickers in the shadowy corners of the room, praying for the miracle that will bring light back into our lives.
THREE
Alis
“Skye! Stop iiiiiiiiiit!”The giggling protests of my almost ten-year-old echo down the hall and through my closed bedroom door. It’s 7:45 a.m., which means I should be awake. Too bad I was up working on book edits until 2 a.m. and I have no plans to get out of bed any time before 9. It’s Sunday. I can afford to sleep in one day per week, right?
Wrong.
Skye and Sunny’s annoyingly loud banter refuses to let the hard-working adult of this household sleep another moment. Looks like I’m getting up.
I throw off my comforter and try to swing my legs over the side of my mattress. However, the top sheet is wrapped around my ankles so now I do the sheet-untangle-jiggle-wiggle until finally, my feet come loose and the top sheet gets shoved to the bottom of the bed. For the life of me, I do not know why people still sleep with top sheets. The fitted sheet and the comforter work just fine, and provide a free range of movement, tangle-free. Mom set up my bed while she was here last week and made sure both my and Sunny’s bed had all the requisite accessories — including bed skirts, top sheets, andthrow pillows (i.e., the three most useless items on any bed). I’m glad she was here to help and spend time with us before starting our new city life, but I’ll never be thankful for her insistence on the necessity of the top sheet.
I pat over to the master bath and splash water on my face to help me wake up before facing the crazy in the kitchen. The bags under my eyes do nothing to hide my late-night work routine, but I’m not going anywhere important today so it doesn’t really matter. I brush my teeth and then flip down my hair to tie a messy knot on top of my head. No use brushing this mop.
“I’d ask what you’re bickering about, but it’s Sunday so I assume you’re painting each other with pancake batter,” I say as I walk to the kitchen bar, sliding out a stool and plopping myself down on it.
Both Skye and Sunny turn to face me, pancake batter splattered on their faces and clothes. “You betcha!” Skye slaps Sunny on the butt with her spatula.
“Will you stop it!” Sunny grumbles, or pretends to grumble, while laughing and twisting away to press her backside against the cabinet.
“You know it helps to get the batter onto the pan instead of your shirts.” They both roll their eyes in unison, laughing and turning to flip the pancakes that actually made it to the griddle.
I live for moments like this. Our family may be unconventional, but it’s perfect. The aunt-mom, the adopted niece, and the funky friend-aunt. Three peas in a pod. I thought it’d be weird living so far away from Tori, but considering she’s been married for a decade it wasn’t like I left my roommate behind.
“Is there coffee?” I yawn.
“Yeah — but not the fancy kind.” Sunny pulls myfriends don’t let friends live uncaffeinatedmug from the cabinet and pours me a cup. “Thanks, Sunshine,” I smile at her and reach over the bartop to grab the creamer.
I couldn’t care less about fancy coffee. Give me Maxwell House with a hefty dose of vanilla creamer and I’m good to go.
I take a sip, sigh happily, and look to Skye who’s weighing herwhole-bean coffee on a food scale. “Enjoy your sludge. I’m makingrealcoffee,” Skye says over her shoulder.
“You can keep your fancy snob coffee. I don’t have time to weigh beans and grind them and then conduct a massive science experiment just for a cup of joe.”
Skye snorts. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Brewing coffee is —”
“An art, only mastered by those with sophisticated taste,” Sunny and I mock in unison. Skye watched some documentary about a barista competition a few years back and since then she’s taken up coffee as a hobby and part-time job. Who knew you could make a living from being a pretentious hipster?
Skye rolls her eyes and turns back to her gadgets.
“Is there bacon?” I ask as I take another swig from my mug.
“What is breakfast without bacon?” Sunny crows, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. I’ve raised her well, it seems.
“Good point. Can I help with anything? Eggs?”
“Nope. I think we’re good,” Sunny says, following that with a report of today’s menu. “Bacon should be ready in three minutes, pancakes are done, fruit is washed. We’re out of eggs since we made the pancake batter from scratch this time, so some of your protein is hidden in your carbs.” Protein hidden in carbs? My girl is ridiculous. Or a genius? TBD.
“You know that’s not how it works, right?” I raise an eyebrow at Sunny as she bends to pull the bacon out of the oven.
“Maybe not, but it makes you feel a little less guilty for eating pan-fried cake for breakfast.” Sunny looks over her shoulder and smirks at me.
“You’re not even ten yet and you’re already a smartass.”
