“So, what do you need?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Kid’s room stuff.”
“For your niece?”
Without looking over at her, I nod tightly.
“The kids’ stuff is this way,” she offers, pointing to a shortcut.
If I expected shopping for Sophia’s room to be emotionally trying, I wouldn’t have asked to tag along with Margot today. When I look around the enormous kids’ section, it hits me that I don’t have any idea what to get.
How big is Sophia now?
What does she like?
Which colors would she want in her room?
Emotions whirl around in my chest. There’s so much I don’t know about Sophia. So much I’ve missed. But after all this time, I’m finally going to see her again. I suck in a deep, choppy breath. It’s not just the abundance of options overwhelming me, but the whole situation.
I feel Margot’s eyes on the side of my face, studying my expression. Whatever she finds there makes her step away, drifting down a nearby aisle to look at some bedding. I’m grateful for the space. Taking a few more deep breaths, I collect myself and eventually join Margot by the bedding.
“Which one do you think she might like?” she asks without looking over at me.
I survey the options, feeling completely lost. There’s a pale pink sheet set that she would’ve liked when she was younger, but maybe the dinosaur sheets would suit her better now.
When I don’t reply, Margot’s gaze slides over to me. “Is she really girly or more of the tomboy type?”
I have no idea.
“It’s, uh… it’s been a while since I’ve seen her,” I say.
There’s a short pause before Margot asks, “How old is she?”
“Five.”
Margot ponders for a second then pushes up onto her tiptoes to reach for a bedding set on the highest shelf. She wobbles as her fingertips work to nudge the set forward, and I instinctively step forward to intervene. It’s a mistake that I realize a second too late. My chest is pressed against Margot’s back, boxing her in. She stiffens at the physical contact, her fingers fumbling with the bedding set, which falls from the shelf and nearly lands on her head. I catch it first, and we both spring apart, looking anywhere but at each other.
“Sorry,” I mutter at the same time Margot gives me a quiet, “thanks.”
Clearing her throat, Margot redirects her attention to the bedding set in my hands. “Do you think she would like that one?”
It’s white with little pink and blue penguins holding hands in a repeating pattern. It’s not too girlie, nor is it too tomboyish. Most importantly, it’s cute.
“Yeah, I think she would,” I say, adding it to the cart.
Admittedly, even after two years apart, it’s hard for me not to think of Sophia as my daughter, which makes it hard to admit that I don’t really know if she’ll like it or not. I hope she does though. I would give anything to see her face light up at the sight of her new bedroom.
Margot and I exchange stiff, awkward smiles. The memory of her soft curves pressed against me is still fresh in my brain and on my skin. It’s not something I mean to enjoy—just a simple, accidental touch. But after a dry spell, it feels like more. It absolutely shouldn’t though. Tamping down the thought, I grab the cart and navigate to the next section.
We pick out a bed, a dresser, a nightstand, a rug, and a weird little lamp that Margot likes for Sophia’s room. When we turn the corner and are greeted by a whole room of stuffed animals, her face lights up and she rushes over to a bin near the wall.
“It’s perfect!” she declares, holding up a little stuffed penguin. “You have to get this.”
I smile at her. “Put it in the cart.”
Our last stop before we check out is the giant warehouse. It takes every ounce of self-control I have to bite my tongue as we load the cheaper of the two mattresses onto the flat cart. I push the cart a short distance and load the more expensive mattress on top of it.
“What are you doing?” she asks, wide-eyed and already forming an objection on her tongue.