“Do I look weird? I feel weird,” she said, her voice carrying that particular uncertainty of a child who’s grown up too fast.
“You look amazing, baby girl,” I said, pinning a curl behind her ear. “You look like your mom. You look exactly like her.”
Harry tugged at his collar with a scowl, the way nine-year-old boys do when forced into formal clothing.
“Why are we wearing these? Can’t we just stay home, Mom?”
“And leave me to do this alone? Not a chance, baby. It’s just for a little while. And after this, we’re getting pancakes with sprinkles and extra chocolate sauce. Just how you like it. Deal?”
“You’re smiling weird,” he said, squinting at me with the perceptiveness that children sometimes possess. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I replied. “And you three are going to stay near Aunt Denise today, alright? Promise me.”
Mika peeked around the corner of the hallway, her small frame silhouetted against the morning light.
“Is Oliver in trouble?” she asked.
I paused, brushing imaginary lint from Harry’s shoulder, choosing my words carefully.
“Oliver made choices,” I said. “And today… people are going to see them.”
