Chapter 8
Emma asked where Margaret was at breakfast.
I told her the truth in words she could carry.
“She is staying somewhere else for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because she hurt you.”
Emma looked down at her cereal.
“Because I’m adopted?”
My chest tightened.
“No.”
“She said.”
“I know.”
“Is adopted bad?”
“No.”
She thought.
“David not adopted.”
“No.”
“Mommy not adopted.”
“No.”
“You?”
“No.”
Her face became serious.
“Only me.”
There it was.
Difference turning into isolation.
I crouched beside her chair.
“You are the only adopted person at this breakfast.”
She stared.
“And?”
I continued.
“David is the only sixteen-year-old.”
She looked at him.
True.
“Laura is the only one wearing ridiculous earrings.”
My daughter glared at me.
Emma smiled.
“Grandpa.”
“Yes?”
“You have neck tattoo.”
“Also true.”
She thought.
Different stopped meaning lesser for a second.
Good.
Then she whispered:
“Can adopted sit here?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“As long as you want.”
She nodded.
Simple.
Later David found me.
“She still thinks Margaret might come take her plate.”
My jaw tightened.
“How do you know?”
“She hides bread.”
I closed my eyes.
Three.
Already storing food because an adult made meals conditional on belonging.
We found two rolls inside Emma’s small backpack.
Wrapped in napkins.
I did not confront her.
Laura did.
Softly.
“You can eat whenever you’re hungry.”
Emma looked suspicious.
“What if guests come?”
“You still eat.”
“What if family?”
“You are family.”
The child stared.
Then pulled one roll from the backpack.
“Can David have?”
He laughed.
“No.”
She insisted.
He took half.
Again.
Margaret taught him Emma would steal his inheritance.
May you like
Emma kept trying to feed him.
Sometimes reality defeats ideology by being embarrassingly ordinary.
