Her head tilts. “Who’s that?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
She nods.
“Well,” I say, “that’s unacceptable. I’ll fix that immediately. Movie night tonight.”
Her grin widens. “With popcorn?”
“Of course.”
She tries on eight more pairs—purple ones, glittery ones, ones shaped like stretched rectangles—but she circles back to the big round ones every time. Eventually, she chooses blue frames with soft edges and tiny silver specks along the arms. The tech tells us they’ll be ready in a while.
While we wait, the receptionist brings out a tray of sugar cookies shaped like stars. Maisie’s eyes go huge.
“Can I have two?” she asks, then glances up at me like she’s afraid the answer will be no.
“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.”
She picks one, then reaches for another… then pauses, thinking it over.
“Can I take one more? For my new friend?”
I raise a brow. “Which new friend?”
“Norah,” she says simply, like this should’ve been obvious.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. “Yeah? You want to bring her a cookie?”
“Yes. She likes sweet things. I can tell.”
I don’t know how she can tell, but Maisie always seems to read people faster than adults do.
“Alright,” I say. “Grab one for her.”
She wraps it in a napkin, folds the edges like she’s packing treasure, and tucks it carefully into her little coat pocket.
By the time the glasses are ready, she’s worn herself out trying on every frame in the place. She slips the final pair on again and looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes widen, this soft awe settling over her features.
“I can see so far,” she whispers.
The tech smiles. “That’s what we like to hear.”
She takes my hand as we walk back to the car. Her steps have a little bounce now, like the world looks new and she’s trying to map it all again.
Once we’re on the road, she asks, “Can we take Norah her cookie now?”
“We’ll pass by before we head to the community hall,” I say. “But first you have to tell me something.”
“What?”
“Why do you like Norah so much?”
Maisie swings her feet again, thinking it over. “She reminds me of my favorite teacher, Miss Harlow. She’s never mad when kids talk a lot. Some teachers say I talk too much. Miss Harlow never did. Norah doesn’t either.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at that. Maisie doesn’t open up easily. She doesn’t get attached easily. For her to latch onto Norah after only a single interaction says more than anything she could put into words.
“That’s a good reason,” I say.
