“I think it’s a good rule to live by.”
“So who do you hate?”
That’s a good question. I ponder it, going through anyone who might be on my list. “I hate people who litter. Find a garbage can and don’t be lazy, you know?”
Sadie laughs softly. “Okay…”
“I hate people who are mean just to be mean. There was a girl in middle school who just tried to be awful—I hated her. She did grow up, and I ended up being civil with her, but during that time, I definitely didn’t like her.”
Seriously, there’s always one girl who thinks being cruel is fun. Diana used to pick on me all the time. She used to call me names, always go after the boy I liked. It wasn’t until high school when she was a freshman and there was a senior who was much meaner than her that she was knocked down a few pegs.
“There’s a girl in school, her name is Lauren, and everyone thinks she’s so nice, but she’s mean. She’s, like, nice-mean, which is worse than just being mean-mean.”
I nod. “Be authentic, right?”
“Yes.”
“What about you? Who do you hate?”
Sadie puts the chicken down, walking toward the fence. “I hate people who think they know you better than you know yourself.”
That’s deeply philosophical for a twelve-year-old. I also have a feeling we’re not talking about random people, and this is a parenting thing. As much as I sometimes feel like I’m my brothers’ other mother, I don’t know this territory, so I’m a little hesitant to dive in.
“I see. Hopefully you don’t deal with that a lot.”
She scoffs. “Like, every day.”
“Can I guess who this person might be?”
“My dad.” She answers before I can guess.
I figured as much. “Most of the time, parents are just doing what they think is best. It’s not that they think they know better.”
At least, that’s something my mom would say, so we’re going to go with that. I’m not a parent, and I have no clue what they think, especially her father.
“Well, they don’t always know,” Sadie says with a fire in her voice that I can feel from over here.
I nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s true.”
She lets out a long, slow sigh and reaches down for her chicken. “I need to go back to the coop. I want to build them a new roosting area.”
“Have you decorated the coop?” I ask.
“Not really…”
“In my coop, they have a chandelier,” I tell her.
Sadie’s eyes widen to saucers, and I see so much of her father.
She has his darker hair color, where Emmy Jo’s was much lighter, as were her eyes—Sadie has Tristan’s shape, but her mother’s eye color.
“A chandelier?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s solar and only there so that I can see them at night, but it’s pretty and I think every girl deserves a little pretty, even if they’re just chickens.”
“I like you, Lark,” Sadie admits.
I feel like I just won the lottery. “I like you, too, but let’s not tell anyone.”
