Page 45 of More With You

“It’s okay. You can hug me. I hugged you first, so it’s okay,” she tells me, grinning up at me. “Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

Ben looks just as astonished as I feel, but he nods. “That’s right, Duckling.” He waits nervously, his foot half a step forward, as if he’s not sure whether to tug her away or urge me to hug her back.

In the end, I make the decision for him. Taking a breath, I crouch down to her level and put my arms around her. She’s even smaller than I thought, and I could probably wrap my whole arm around her if I wanted to. It’s terrifying, to feel something so vulnerable and fragile in my hold. Honestly, I’m scared I’m going to break her, but she clings to me regardless.

“You smell nice,” she tells me, nuzzling into my shoulder like an inquisitive puppy.

“Thank you,” I reply, choked up. I can’t explain it. I’ve never had someone put so much trust in me, so freely. Her little arms loop around my neck and she’s just melting into me, and I can’t stop my hug from tightening around her in a gesture of protection. Is this maternal instinct, or is it just human nature to want to keep the smallest, weakest humans safe? I’ve got no idea, but it’s not making me want to run anymore.

Grace takes a huge sniff of me. “Is it vamilla?”

“How did you know that?” I chuckle, though there are tears in my eyes. We’ve only just met, but her hug is like an acceptance I didn’t know I craved.

She cups a hand around my ear and whispers conspiratorially, “It’s my favorite. Vamilla cookies. Vamilla buttcream. You smell like cake.”

A short distance away, Ben stifles a snort: his face crinkling up with laughter. I’ll have to ask him later if she’s right—do I smell like cake? There are worse things to smell like.

“Butt-cream?” I think I know what she means. “The stuff you put on cupcakes?”

She nods. “Cupcakes are my favorite.”

“You have a lot of favorites,” I say approvingly. “What else do you like?”

“I like Daddy, I like Mommy, I like Foster, I like Mae, I like the lady here, I like beanbags, I like… um… The Ugly Duckling, I like… uh… I like orange juice. I like Wispy. I like singing. I like Teddy. I like… hmm… I can’t remember.” She pulls away, shuffling awkwardly, as if I’ve put her on the spot.

I take hold of her hands. “That’s okay. You said lots of things. I can’t remember things, sometimes, and Ms. T forgets things all the time. I bet she’s forgotten your orange juice, hasn’t she?”

“My juice!”

From the counter, Ms. T rushes over with a replenished tray. “Coming, my princess! Fresh orange juice for fresh minds!” She sits right down on the beanbag. “You’ll have the energy to read… oh, at least a hundred books, if you drink this juice.”

“I will?” Grace claps her hands together with enthusiasm, which quickly fades as she notices where Ms. T is sitting. “Hey, that’s my beanbag.” She strides over to reclaim her perch but seems to have a change of heart on the way. “Do you want to share? I don’t mind. I like sharing. Don’t I, Daddy?”

Ben laughs. “You do, Duckling.” He glances at me. “She was learning about sharing and “favorite things” in kindergarten before the summer break.”

“Looks like we share a couple of those favorites,” I tell him, hoping I’ve got it in me to add Grace to that list, one day. She’s definitely charmed me, but I’m aware that kids can turn into miniature tyrants at a moment’s notice. It won’t all be sunshine and “vamilla.”

“Oh, I can’t sit here, sweet girl,” Ms. T insists, setting the tray down on a small, circular table and groaning back to her feet. “If I stay down there, your daddy will have to call the fire brigade to have me hoisted back up. But Summer might like to, if you’d share with her? You could read something together. Summer loves to read, too.”

I could kiss Ms. T for throwing me that bone. Sure, things have started well, but it’s about maintaining that momentum, and I’m floundering a bit.

Grace looks bemused. “Who’s Summer?”

“That’s me,” I say, edging over to the reading corner, where Grace has snuggled back into the somewhat deflated beanbag. “I’m Summer. I didn’t tell you my name before. Silly me.”

She pats the empty side of the beanbag. “You sit with me, Summer. It’s a pretty name. I like it. Summer means sunscreen. You smell like sunscreen. And cupcakes.” She pats the beanbag more urgently. “Come on, Summer. I’ll read Wispy to you.”

“Who’s Wispy?” I immediately sit down, worried she might revoke the invitation.

Grace points to the book she was looking at before. “Him.” She touches the silky fabric that “Wispy” is covered with. It’s clearly a sensory kind of book, possibly designed for much smaller kids, but if she likes it, I’m not going to suggest something else. “Daddy reads it to me. It’s never the same.”

I try to hide my confusion. Surely, a book is always the same? “Is this your favorite?”

“Oh yes.” She nods. “Grandpa says I’m too old for it. He doesn’t know.”

Judging by the way she speaks, I can understand why her grandfather might think this level of reading is beneath her. She already has a surprising vocabulary, and she talks with such confidence, even if she doesn’t quite know the words she wants to use. It makes me wonder what I was like at her age. I never asked my mom, and she never bothered to tell me. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure there were any photos of me as a little kid. They weren’t put up proudly around the house or cooed over in yellowing albums. No trace of me at all.

I curve my arm behind Grace, resting it on the beanbag—not connecting with her back but leaving it there as more of a comfort, if she needs it. My heart almost explodes out of my chest as she turns into me, completely oblivious to the nature of personal space, and drapes her legs over mine. Leaning into my shoulder, she opens the book and begins to tell her version of Wispy. Now, I understand what she meant about the story never being the same. She’s not the kind of kid who’s hemmed in by something as restrictive as words—she just uses the pictures to make up her own tale.

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