Instead, she asked, “What do I call you?”
I smiled through tears.
“Nicole works until you decide otherwise.”
***
Months later, Mia sat cross-legged on my living room floor while I opened Margot’s memory box.
Inside were little things I’d convinced myself were proof she had existed: a plastic bracelet, a picture book, one tiny shoe.
“What do I call you?”
Mia picked up the shoe.
“My foot was that small?”
Then she pulled out a ruffled dress and held it at arm’s length.
Her face twisted.
“No.”
I laughed.
“What?”
“My foot was that small?”
“Absolutely not. You put me in this?”
“You hated it.”
She looked at me.
“You?”
I caught myself.
“Margot hated it.”
“Absolutely not. You put me in this?”
Mia looked down at the dress.
Then back at me.
“No. You were right the first time.”
I went still.
She smoothed the fabric across her knees.
“What happened when I wore it?”
I went still.
I looked at the 14-year-old beside me: not the little girl I’d spent ten years trying to preserve; not the stranger who had walked up my driveway; my daughter, Mia.
“You really want to know?”
She leaned against the couch.
“Tell me.”
So I did.
“You really want to know?”
I told her about the shoes she’d kicked off under the table, how she’d hidden behind Greg because she hated having her picture taken, and how she’d spilled juice on the dress 20 minutes later and looked delighted about it.
