The words hit harder than I expect. Not because she’s talking about a toy. Because it’s the first time she’s asked for anyone—anything—since I brought her here.
She clung to that stuffed rabbit every day back at Amber’s place. Slept with it. Ate with it. Treated it like it could keep the world from cracking open.
But I’ve noticed that she leaves the rabbit behind a lot more. In fact, I haven’t seen her with it since yesterday morning.
And now, with her nerves showing and everything unfamiliar, she doesn’t ask for her mother. She asks for a stuffed rabbit.
Something twists low in my chest. What exactly is going on between Amber and her daughter? I thought I had some idea, but moments like this make me realize how much I still don’t know.
“We’ll bring Frida along next time,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“Okay.” She leans her forehead against the window. Her breath fogs the glass in little bursts. “Frida doesn’t like long car rides anyway.”
I smile at that. “Good to know.”
The drive stretches on, and I can feel her energy waver as we get closer to town. She taps her fingers on her knees. Bites her lip. Watches the buildings grow taller, more familiar.
By the time we pull into the optometrist’s lot, I realize something I probably should’ve known already. I’ve never taken a kid to an eye appointment. I don’t even know how these things go.
The office is tucked between a bakery and a pharmacy just outside town, a little brick place with a sign that creaks whenever the door opens.
I park across the street. She unbuckles but doesn’t climb out right away. Her hands stay on the belt like she’s holding herself still.
“You ready?” I ask gently.
She nods, though her chin dips toward her chest right after.
Inside, the air smells faintly of lemon wipes and carpet cleaner. A receptionist greets us with a smile that’s too big for this hour of the morning.
“Welcome. Appointment?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I called and made one for Maisie Carter. She’s a new patient.”
Maisie drifts behind my leg like she’s hiding from a stranger at the grocery store. Her fingers hook in the fabric of my jeans.
“This way,” the woman says, handing us a clipboard.
Maisie’s eyes dart to the exam rooms, wide and worried. “Do I have to go alone?”
“No,” I say, crouching to her level. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
The tension in her shoulders loosens a little. “Okay.”
While I fill out the forms, she swings her legs from the waiting chair and studies the posters on the wall. Pictures of lenses. Retinas.
Diagrams showing things I probably should’ve learned years ago if I’d ever paid attention during my own checkups.
It hits me all at once—I don’t know basic things about my own niece. When was her last appointment? Has she ever had one? Does she have any symptoms besides squinting at the TV?
What did Amber notice? What did she ignore?
The questions pile up like bricks, but I swallow them down because the tech opens the door and calls Maisie’s name.
She inches closer to me, not saying anything but linking her fingers with mine like it’s instinct. She squeezes my hand as we walk in.
The room is small, with that huge machine that looks like a robot missing a face. Maisie eyes it like it might start talking to her.
“It won’t hurt,” the tech assures her. “We’ll just see how your eyes are doing.”
