I stood by the counter in my robe, watching steam curl from my mug and listening to Nicole hum some made-up song in the living room.
It was the soundtrack of our ordinary life, and I had no reason to think it would crack open before lunch.
Nicole was six, and the proudest thing about her was the hair tumbling halfway down her back.
Thick, dark, and curly, the kind of curls strangers reached toward in grocery aisles without asking.
« Excuse me, is that all hers? » they would say.
« Every strand, » I would answer, half proud, half tired.
She used to climb onto the little bathroom stool every morning and let me work through the tangles.
Sometimes, she whined.
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