Mia scrolled through the page like she had discovered another country.
“Can I go?”
Then I saw the price.
Three weeks cost more than our monthly mortgage payment.
“Maybe next year, sweetie.”
I’d said it gently.
“Maybe next year, sweetie.”
Mia nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
The following year, she asked again.
I gave her the same answer.
“Maybe next year.”
Again, she said: “Okay.”
That was Mia.
Easy.
Understanding.
The child who never made a difficult situation harder.
Her father, Michael, died when she was five.
The child who never made a difficult situation harder.
After the funeral, my mother-in-law, Dorothy, moved in because I had to work.
There were months when I would leave before Mia finished breakfast and come home after she’d gone to bed.
Dorothy held everything together.
And whenever I apologized, she would tell me, “Go work. I’ve got our girl.”
Dorothy held everything together.
I used to think Mia barely noticed how hard those years were.
