“It’s okay.” She’s already walking toward the car, paper still pressed against her coat.
Okay...
I open the back door for her, help her with the booster seat buckle, and try to get a look at whatever she’s holding. She angles away from me.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s homework.”
“Since when do you hide homework from me?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares out the window as I pull away from the curb, her little jaw set in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of myself it hurts.
I let it go. For now.
The drive home takes twenty minutes through stop-and-go traffic, past bodegas with steamed-up windows and restaurants already setting up for the dinner rush. Maisie doesn’t say a word the whole way, just stares out the window at the passing storefronts, her reflection a ghost in the glass.
I try the radio again. Kid-friendly station this time, the kind that plays sanitized pop songs and has DJs who sound aggressively cheerful. Maisie doesn’t react. Doesn’t sing along like she usually does. Doesn’t even complain when a song she hates comes on.
By the time I pull into the driveway of our townhome—three bedrooms, small backyard, a swing set I put together myself using instructions that were definitely written by someone who hates humans—I’m starting to worry.
“Maze.”
She looks at me in the rearview mirror.
“Whatever that paper is, you know you can show me, right? I’m not going to be mad.”
She considers this. Then, quietly, “Promise?”
“I promise.”
She hands it over.
It’s a family tree. The kind of project every elementary school teacher assigns without thinking about the kids who don’t have neat, simple families to draw. There’s a trunk at the bottom with her name on it—MAISIE, written in careful purple crayon. Two branches extend upward.
On the left branch, there’s me. She drew me with dark hair and a hockey stick, which is both accurate and kind of adorable.
On the right branch, there’s nothing. Just an empty circle where “Mom” should be.
My chest tightens.
“I didn’t know what to put,” she says, voice small. “Mrs. Patterson said we have to fill in both sides, but I don’t... I mean, I don’t really...”
“Hey.” I turn around in my seat to face her. “You can draw Grandma and Grandpa. Or Aunt Claire. Family doesn’t have to mean—”
“It’s supposed to be parents.” She’s not looking at me now. “That’s what the worksheet says. Parents.”
I take a breath. Let it out slow.
“Then draw what you have,” I tell her. “Me. That’s enough.”
She finally meets my eyes, and the doubt I see there guts me. She’s six years old, and she’s already learned that some people leave. That promises don’t always mean anything.
I did that to her. Me, and Sienna, and every choice we made that put this kid in the middle of our mess.
