The silver-backed hairbrush was heavy in my hand, its cool metal weight comforting against my palm. I pulled it gently through Emily’s hair, working from the ends upward, the thick, chestnut strands reaching past her shoulder blades and catching the yellow light of our kitchen lamps. It was Sunday evening, seven o’clock, our quiet weekly ritual before the school year started to rush us.
“I am never going to cut it, Mom,” Emily said.
She sat on the wooden stool, her back straight, her hands hidden deep inside the cuffs of her oversized gray hoodie. Her voice was barely a murmur above the low hum of the refrigerator.
“Good,” I said, twisting my silver wedding band around my finger as I worked through a tiny knot near the nape of her neck. “It is your signature look, sweetie.”
Usually, she would twist around to show me a video on her phone or tell me what her best friend Clara had said at the park. Tonight she sat perfectly still, her chin tucked slightly toward her chest, watching her own sneakers.
“Is Clara coming over tomorrow?” I asked.
