He frowned.
“So somebody has to help her.”
I blinked.
“Really?”
“What?”
“Somebody has to help her.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Scarlett.”
“I’m just wondering where this mysterious helpful person is when Sasha and Nicki need rides.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You have your mom.”
There it was.
“You have Linda.”
You.
Not we.
You have your mother.
You have Linda.
As though our daughters belonged to me and Harold occasionally subcontracted as their father.
“Coworkers need help too,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Of course they do.”
Something in my voice made him narrow his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
For once, I stopped arguing.
The following morning, Sasha was working on a school project at the kitchen table.
Across the top, she’d written in purple marker:
PEOPLE WHO HELP MY FAMILY
There were drawings underneath.
I recognized myself immediately.
Red hair.
Gray cast.
Crutches that looked like giant forks.
Under MOM, Sasha had written:
Takes us to school.
Makes lunch.
Knows where everything is.
Nicki had contributed another sentence:
EVEN WITH THE GIANT LEG.
I laughed.
“Thank you, I think.”
Then I noticed the other side.
DAD.
Harold was drawn sitting inside a blue car.
