Page 24 of Scars and Crowns

I nod sympathetically. "I can believe that."

She leans closer, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "I need all her secrets."

"My goodness."

"So when she scolds me . . . " A mischievous smile spreads across her face. " . . . I'll use them against her."

I stare at her for exactly one second. Then burst into another laugh.

She's impossible. And so . . . Anamika coded. God, she is Anamika’s child. "That's your master plan?"

She nods proudly. "Very smart, right?"

"Very dangerous," I correct. She beams at the compliment anyway.

"You really are a clever little girl."

"I know." The confidence in her answer makes me smile all over again.

For the next few minutes, I tell her stories. Only the harmless ones. The safe ones.

About a little girl who couldn't walk through the palace gardens without picking flowers she wasn't supposed to touch. About the poor gardeners who'd spend half the day pretending to be angry while secretly saving the prettiest blooms because they knew she'd come looking for them. About how she insisted everyone deserved flowers on festivals because "everyone likes presents." About how impossible it was to stay in a bad mood around her.

As I speak, Sara doesn't interrupt once. She listens with complete concentration, leaning closer after every story, her wide eyes fixed entirely on me. It's almost as though she's collecting pieces of someone she's only ever known as Mumma.

She’s silent for a long moment, almost in awe, she looks up at me and whispers, her face falling a bit, "Mister?"

"Hm?"

"If she was so good to you . . . " She hesitates. The playful sparkle disappears from her face. " . . . then why did you leave her?"

Everything inside me goes still. The question is so gentle. So honest. It lands harder than any accusation ever could. My throat closes instantly.

Seven years.

Seven years of avoiding that exact question no one really asked, except me. Of answering it with duty. With circumstance. With silence. With . . . love and hence letting her go.

And somehow . . . It takes a five-year-old to ask it so simply that every excuse I've ever hidden behind suddenly feels meaningless.

Before I can answer, she speaks again. This time her voice is barely louder than a whisper. "Mumma only has me."

She looks down at her own shoes. "What if . . . " Her fingers twist together. " . . . what if I also go away someday?" The words tremble as they leave her. "Like Nani did?" She looks back at me then. Her eyes are glistening. "Who will Mumma have?"

God.

I don't think anyone has ever punched me this hard without touching me. For a long moment . . . I can't find my voice. I simply look at this little girl standing in front of me. She's trying so hard to sound brave. Trying so hard not to cry. Trying to carry worries no five-year-old should even know exist.

I gently place a hand on her shoulder. "First . . . " My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "You're not going anywhere."

She watches me carefully. "And second . . . " I swallow. "You're right." The admission hurts. "I should've stayed in touch."

I should've searched harder. Asked more questions. Refused to let time become distance.

"There are a lot of things I should've done differently." I offer her the smallest smile I can manage. "But I can still do the right thing now."

I hold her gaze. "Your mumma is here."

"So am I."