Page 18 of The Art of Ruin

She pours without asking how I take it and gets it right anyway. Lots of cream and two sugars.

I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my fingers, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. “This is a beautiful home,” I say, because it is, but also because I don’t know what else to say.

“It’s a managed one,” she replies, and there’s something in her tone that makes me glance up.

Not pride.

Understanding.

I tuck that away.

Before I can ask what she means, there’s a blur of movement at the edge of the doorway.

Small. Fast.

Letty.

She slows when she sees me. Not shy exactly, but not rushing in either. Her eyes move over me, taking me in like she’s checking something against a memory.

Then she smiles. “You came back.”

It’s not a question.

Something in my chest softens before I can stop it. “I did.”

She steps a little closer, still watching, like she’s deciding if I’m the same person she remembers.

“You let me be the dragon,” she says.

I huff out a quiet laugh. “You made me the princess.”

Her mouth twitches, pleased with that. “You were a good princess.”

High praise. “I’ll take that.”

She nods once, like the matter is settled.

Then, without warning, she reaches for my hand.

Not tentative, certain, like a child that’s sure of her place in the world.

“Come on,” she says. “I’ll show you my crayons.”

“Okay.”

That’s apparently all the approval I need, and this is why I love kids. No artifice or games.

She takes my hand without asking, tugging me toward the living room.

“Come see my drawings,” she says.

And just like that, I go.

We’re sittingon the floor when the front door opens.

I don’t hear the door itself.

I feel it.