Her nose was freckled. There was a small scrape on one knee. Her hair had been braided badly enough that I knew she’d done it herself.
Three weeks had somehow made my 13-year-old look older.
Around her wrist was a woven bracelet made from green, yellow, and blue thread.
I touched it.
“You made this?”
Mia grinned. “Cabin Seven. Everybody has one.”
“Very fancy.”
“It took me 40 minutes, Mom.”
“Then I take it back,” I teased. “Museum quality.”
“You made this?”
She rolled her eyes.
For one perfect minute, everything was exactly what I’d hoped this day would be.
Then a woman in a navy camp shirt walked toward us.
“Rebecca?”
I turned. “Yes?”
She held out her hand. “I’m Denise. Camp director.”
Then a woman in a navy camp shirt walked toward us.
Something about her tone wiped the smile off my face.
Mia immediately started studying the gravel.
