I blinked. Then reread the message.
Me:We’re building a fairy hospital.
Millie PTA:Perfect. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
I stared at the phone. Then at Billie. “We’re having company.”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Apparently.”
“Who?”
“Millie and Hazel.”
Billie launched herself to her feet. “This hospital needs more beds.”
Twenty minutes later, the house looked as though a craft store had exploded. The table was covered in popsicle sticks, construction paper, markers, and enough glitter to haunt the estate for generations.
The girls were delighted. Hazel immediately volunteered to become Head Fairy Surgeon. Billie promoted herself to Hospital Director. Neither title appeared to come with actual responsibilities.
I carried a tray of lemonade into the dining room and found Millie leaning against the table.
She accepted a glass with visible gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Rough day?” I asked.
She took a long drink. “Do you know what my daughter asked me this morning?”
I shook my head.
“She asked whether dogs have feelings.”
I considered this. “Do they?”
“I don’t know.” Millie threw up her hands. “That’s the problem.”
I laughed.
Millie smiled. “There it is.”
I frowned. “There what is?”
“You.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
She waved a hand. “Half the time you’re so composed I feel like I’m talking to royalty.”
I nearly choked.
“And then you laugh.” Her smile widened. “And suddenly you’re normal.”
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever described me as normal before. It felt strangely nice.
We drifted into easy conversation while the girls played. The older children wandered through periodically, usually in search of snacks. At one point, CJ stopped by to announce that fairy hospitals were medically inaccurate.
Nobody cared about his opinion.
