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Logan hears the garage door close and turns to face me, a grin stretched wide across his face. The entire apron wrapped around his front is now visible—lime green with lemon slices stamped in a varying pattern—I wonder where it came from, because it’s not mine.
“Nice apron.”
“Thank you, thank you.” He bows, continuing to smile.
“Girls in their bedrooms?”
Logan nods and continues working on whatever he’s cooking.
I pop my head into Rainey’s bedroom, where she’s coloring on her bed with Maggie.
“Hey there.” I surprise them.
“Noah! You’re home.” Rainey hops to her feet and rushes toward me with her arms outstretched. A little more touchy-feely than I’m used to from her, but I happily accept.
“How was school today, baby cakes?” I catch her and wrap my arms around her body.
“Good.”
“Uh uh,” Maggie tattles, “Rainey got in trouble. She hit a boy.”
Maggie’s confession shocks me. Rainey has a dramatic flair and a sassy mouth, but I’ve never seen an ounce of aggression from her.
“You hit someone?” I unweave Rainey’s arms from around me and take a step back. “Is this true?”
“Yep.” Not an ounce of remorse flashes on her face.
“Hey Maggie, can you go down and help your dad with dinner?”
Always obedient, Maggie leaves the room without question. She and Rainey are opposites in this way—Rainey would have demanded to know why she was going downstairs.
I take a seat on the side of her unmade bed and pat the empty spot next to me. Rainey climbs up and looks at me expectantly. What do I say to my niece about not only hitting a boy, but also not even feeling bad about it?
“Can you tell me what happened today at school?”
She fills me in about the boy in question who’d been making fun of her all week. Today he’d added a shove in with his verbal abuse, and she’d had enough. She punched him in the arm.
“Why did you think it would be okay to hit him?”
“I told my teacher he’s been bothering me. She just told him to knock it off, but he didn’t, so I hit him.”
I close my eyes for several seconds, willing wisdom to overcome me and offer the best way to handle this situation. The heavens remain closed though, and I have to come up with my own solution.
“I hear what you’re saying. It’s not okay for someone to make fun of you. I’m so proud you told your teacher. Did you tell your teacher again when he didn’t stop?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because the stuff he said made me mad.”
I’ve heard the whispered stories my friends and coworkers tell about how cruel kids can be. I’m unsure if I want to know the answer, but it would be irresponsible of me to not ask. “Do you want to tell me what he said?”
“He said I don’t have a mom or dad,” she informs me.
I’m gutted. Dammit. I’d heard the same line so many times as a kid in the foster system growing up without biological parents. I knew every time my brother and I moved homes the whispers would begin behind my back at school. It hurt then, but hearing my precious niece experience the same nastiness all these years later may hurt more.
I turn my head and blink rapidly to let my tears know they’re not invited to this conversation. “You know that’s not true, right?”
