The moment my niece asked if I was going to hit her, the room seemed to lose all sound.
My sister, Lauren, was in St. Vincent’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio, giving birth to her second child. I had picked up her seven-year-old daughter, Emma, from school that afternoon and brought her back to my townhouse with a backpack, a stuffed rabbit, and the kind of exhausted quiet children get when their routines have been stretched too far. Lauren had sounded rushed but grateful on the phone. Just one night, Ava. Maybe two. Mark is running back and forth between the hospital and the house, and Emma will do better with you.
That part should have warned me. Mark had always insisted Emma stay close to home. He hated sleepovers, hated her spending too much time at friends’ houses, hated anything he called disruption. Lauren used to laugh it off and say he was overprotective. I never liked the way Emma went silent whenever his name came up.
That night, after dinner and a cartoon she barely watched, I told her it was bath time. She froze instantly.
Not the usual little-kid stalling. Not whining, not bargaining. She just stood there in the hallway clutching her rabbit and looking suddenly smaller than seven.Apparel
You can use my lavender soap, I said gently. It makes huge bubbles.
She shook her head.
You don’t want a bath?
Her eyes dropped to the floor. I saw her throat move before she spoke. Auntie… can I keep my shirt on?
