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“Why not?”

Because one sister took a sledgehammer to the foundation.

“It’s complicated,” I said instead.

“Adult stuff?”

“Very adult stuff.”

“I hate adult stuff. Did she at least teach you braiding before she went far away?”

My throat closed up. “Yeah. She taught me.”

“Then she gave you something good forever. Even if she’s far away, you still have the braiding. That’s what Daddy says about my mom. She went away but she gave him me, so he got the best thing forever.”

This kid. This beautiful, pure-hearted kid who found silver linings in abandonment and forever gifts in temporary people.

I finished the braid in silence, adding the ridiculous amount of clips Noa insisted were necessary. She ran to the bathroom to see, and her squeal of delight could probably be heard three states over.

“I look like a princess! A dinosaur princess! No, a warrior dinosaur princess who has a helicopter!”

“The most beautiful warrior dinosaur princess in Tennessee.”

She launched herself at me in a hug that nearly knocked me off the couch. “You’re the best, Lady Sam. Can we check the cookies now?”

The cookies were slightly burned on the bottom but Noa declared them perfect. We ate three each while she told me about kindergarten drama involving a boy named Kyle who ate paste and a girl named Madison who claimed she could talk to horses.

“Can she really talk to horses?”

“No. She just makes sounds and pretends they’re answering. Kyle says she’s weird but he eats paste so his ‘pinions don’t count.”

“Opinions?”

“That’s what I said.”

By the time we made it to books, she was running on fumes. She’d chosen three books as instructed, but kept “remembering” ones she’d forgotten to add to the pile. We compromised on four, which turned into five when she played the “but this one’s my FAVORITE” card.

“You’re worse than your dad at negotiations,” I told her as we settled into her bed.

“Daddy says I get it from Grandma.”

Again, flawless logic from the tiny human.

I read about dragons who opened bakeries, pigs who wanted to be astronauts, and a bear who was terrible at hibernating. Somewhere during the fourth book, Noa’s responses got quieter. By the fifth, she was out cold, one hand clutching Professor the heartbroken T-Rex.

I should have moved, extracted myself and gone to clean up the kitchen disaster. Instead, I sat there on the couch, watching her breathe.

This was what Sophie was about to have. This complete trust of a small person who believed you’d keep them safe. This weight of someone’s whole world in your arms. Sophie, who’d never wanted kids. Who’d sworn she’d rather die than “destroy her body for some screaming potato.”

But apparently, destroying her sister’s life was fine.

The bitterness rose up so fast I had to swallow it back down. Not here. Not in this soft space that smelled of baby shampoo and cookie dough. This room was for warrior dinosaur princesses, not for the ugly feelings that kept me up at night.

The couch was comfortable. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and another answered, a normal neighborhood sound that reminded me the whole world wasn’t falling apart.

My eyes were getting heavier. The book slipped in my hands. Maybe I could rest. Just for a minute.

Sleep pulled me under before I could resist. The last thing I registered was the sound of a key in the lock and footsteps too tired to be a threat.