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My presence and touch do nothing to budge her attention from the window. A weight of despair settles in my chest when a single, pear-shaped tear slowly slides down her dimpled cheek. Her bottom lip quivers as she blinks away a second tear.
“I want to go home.” The soul-wrenching sadness in her delicate voice brings instant tears to my own eyes, even though she’s said those same words dozens of times since she first learned to talk. One would think I’d be immune to them by now. But I am far, far from it.
A lump forms in my throat, choking me with feelings of failure, anxiety, and doubt. A good mother wouldn’t have a child who cries inconsolably at the window every night. A good mother would know what to say and what to do to make this better, right? I must be doing something wrong. I just don’t know what.
Inhaling a breath, I rest my hand on her back. Her pajamas, with their cheerful ducks holding umbrellas, seem to mock her while she’s so distraught. “Honey, this is your home. Here with me and Daddy.”
She shakes her head. “No. My other home.” Sobbing, she gulps for breath, and I slowly rub circles on her back, hoping to comfort her. But she continues talking through her hiccuping sobs. My touch has never comforted her. Not when she was an infant, and not now. “The one with the porch. And the red door. And the big fuzzy puppy.” She finally turns away from the window and stares at me with pleading eyes so full of heartache. I wish I could take her to the house that she so desperately wants.
But I can’t because it doesn’t exist.
“You’ve lived here your whole life, Penny. Ever since you were a tiny baby, just two days old.”
Her pale-green eyes narrow at me. “Before that,” she says with an impatient tone that has no business coming out of a six-year-old.
“There was no before that, baby. Now let’s get you to bed. You have school in the morning. You don’t want to be tired while all the other little boys and girls are bright, learning all kinds of new and fun things, do you?”
She jumps off the toy chest, stomps across the room, climbs into her bed and flops back on her pillow with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t need school. I know all that stuff already.”
I can’t exactly argue with that. She’s an extremely fast learner. She could talk, read, and write way before other children her age. I remember when Ben and I thought it was so funny when we couldn’t recall what her first word was. She just suddenly started speaking in full sentences one day.
“You are very smart, but you have lots more to learn and new friends to make.”
As I move closer to sit on the edge of the bed, my foot bumps into something on the floor behind her bed skirt. I kneel down to pick it up, thinking it must be a toy she forgot to put away, but it’s not a toy. It’s the broken, hand-held metal can opener I threw in the garbage bin two days ago.
“Penny, why did you take this can opener out of the trash?” I ask softly, perching next to her.
Sniffling, she says, “I don’t know. I just felt like I needed it.”
“We talked about you taking things out of the trash, remember? You can’t do that. It’s dirty and it could be dangerous. Okay?” Taking random objects out of the garbage can is another odd habit my little girl has had since she was about two years old.
She smiles weakly up at me after I kiss her forehead and says, “You’re my favorite mommy. You’re so pretty.”
“Well, thank you. You’re my favorite little girl. Now get some sleep.” I give her nose an affectionate boop before I turn away. I reach to turn on her sound machine, but my attention is caught by a drawing on her nightstand. Penny abandoned crayons over a year ago, insisting we buy her colored pencils. She was born with a talent for drawing beautiful, incredibly realistic pictures. I’m stunned every time I see her artwork. The scene she’s drawn today is one she’s done quite a few times in different variations—a man and a woman in a field of flowers with a sunset backdrop. Another favorite of hers is a snowy, tree-lined road with a tiny red bird. In this drawing today, the woman is holding a baby. An animal with a lionlike mane and a teddy bear face sits in front of them.
“This is beautiful, Penny,” I praise. “And who are these lovely people?”
“My family,” she says with such pride that my heart swells. I’m sure she’s going to be a famous artist someday.
“Why do you always draw me with long brown hair?” I ask with curiosity. My hair has been shoulder length and blonde since she was born.
