I sat there with the phone in my hand.
Dori is eight, and I have her most weekends, so I know her school gate better than my own mailbox.
But a Wednesday? That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t how any of this worked.
***
Dori came skipping out cheerfully, talking about art class all the way home.
Soon she was asking for pancakes and spreading her colored pencils across my kitchen table.
That wasn’t how any of this worked.
“What are you drawing, sweet pea?”
“A family tree. It’s for school.” She said it the way a surgeon would say an operation.
I poured batter and listened to her pencils scratch.
Whenever I glanced over, I recognized everybody, and it warmed me right through.
There was me, with my silver bob. Laura, with her ponytail. Mark, with his big square glasses. Dori had even drawn her cousins, all the way out to the edges of the page.
