Page 31

Her lower lip trembles once, then firms. “I don’t know where Mommy put them.”

I try not to feel the way the word mommy stabs me in the heart.

“Okay,” I say. “Then we’ll look.”

We eventually find the shoes half shoved beneath the bed after Lucy admits she kicked them there while I was making coffee.

“They were too loud,” she mutters.

I have absolutely no idea what that means, but I nod as if I do.

Lucy sits on the floor while I help her put them on. Immediately, she pulls one off because the sock seam is wrong. I fix the seam. She pulls the other off because now that seam is wrong. I fix that one too.

By the time we get to the car, we’re fourteen minutes behind schedule, and I have sweat on the back of my neck despite the cold.

I hate being late.

I hate being responsible for a child who keeps looking at me like I'm a substitute teacher for a life she never agreed to attend.

Most of all, I hate Maggie for not being here.

Then I hate myself for hating her.

It’s an efficient cycle. Very sustainable.

The drive to Lucy’s pre K takes twenty-one minutes. It should take eighteen, but I miss the turn once because I’d forgotten that Redwood Run’s roads were apparently designed by woodland creatures with a grudge against signage.

Lucy sits in the back beside Bun, silent except for one tiny cough.

I glance in the rearview mirror too often.

“Do you usually listen to music?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does your mom?”

A pause. “Sometimes.”

“What kind?”

“She sings wrong.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Lucy’s eyes lift to the mirror. I school my face, but it’s too late. “My sister has never known the correct lyrics to any song in her life.”

Lucy blinks. “She says the words how she likes them.”

“Yes. That sounds like Maggie.”

We pull into the school lot, and Lucy folds in on herself again.

The building is small and cheerful in a way that feels almost aggressive. Bright murals. Painted handprints. A sign shaped like a smiling sun.

I sign her in at the front desk after explaining who I am to a woman named Miss Carol, who looks at me with immediate pity when she hears Maggie’s name.

Pity is exhausting.

Lucy clings to Bun in the hallway.