Usually praise lights her up. Today it barely reaches her.
She looks down at the paper, tracing the edge of one red heart with her fingertip. “I didn’t know if I was allowed.”
The sentence breaks something open in me.
“Allowed to what?”
Her shoulder lifts.
“To put him.”
Him.
Not Colby.
Him.
The person whose name she is afraid to say too casually now, as though saying it might make him disappear.
I sit back on my heels, suddenly unsure whether the floor is steady.
“Of course you’re allowed to put important people on your family tree.”
“But he’s not...” She stops.
My chest aches. “He’s not what?”
Her mouth trembles for half a second before she presses it flat. “Nothing.”
I know that move. I taught her that move without meaning to.
Swallow the question. Fold the fear smaller. Pretend it does not hurt.
Adults call it strength.
Children should never have to learn it.
“Jillie.”
She pushes the paper toward me.
“You have to sign it.”
I look at the bottom.PARENT SIGNATURE.
The words blur. I pick up a pen because that is what a mother does. A mother signs forms, packs lunches. Checks homework, and makes sure mittens are dry, hair is brushed, and shoes fit.
A mother also protects her child from heartbreak.
At least she tries.
I sign my name. My hand does not feel steady.
Jillie takes the paper back carefully and slides it into her folder. Too carefully. Like something fragile. Like something breakable.
Like hope.
***
