A five-year-old should always look safe.
The world should have rules about that.
“He was fine,” I say.
“I know.”
“You checked anyway.”
“I’ll always check.”
“Good.”
She turns her head and looks up at me. “Did you check on people when you were little?”
The question hits too close.
I look away. “What?”
“You always check doors. Windows. Roads. Rooms.” Her voice is quiet. “You checked the hallway before you sat down last night. You checked the Fire Pit before you let me sit. You checked the driveway before you parked. You check like something taught you not to trust quiet.”
I should make a joke.
I have at least ten ready.
Instead, the house feels too small for one more lie.
“Yeah,” I say.
Her eyes stay on me.
She doesn’t push.
That is worse.
I step away from the bedroom. “Let him sleep.”
She looks at August one more time, then pulls the door half-closed. Not locked. Not wide open. A compromise with fear.
We end up in the kitchen because kitchens are where people go when they are trying not to talk in bedrooms.
I turn on the small light over the stove. It throws everything into ugly yellow shadow. Dirty plates in the sink from dinner. Cereal boxes lined on the counter. A juice box straw wrapper stuck to my boot. My house looks like it has been invaded by motherhood and emotional damage.
I should hate it.
I don’t hate it enough.
Amelia leans against the counter. “Sophie looked broken.”
“She’ll heal.”
“You sound sure.”
“I know her.”
“She loves him.”
“Yeah.”