“Oh…uh, yeah. She’s getting dressed. Wanted to pick her own outfit this morning,” I say, eyebrows high. My mom reflects my expression—both of us wondering what she’ll come ambling down the stairs in.

Leah spends her day at the church daycare with my mom. I’m fortunate that we’re able to make this work. I’m lucky my mom is able to help. There are days where I’m not sure how I’ve survived without Beth.

Beth was excited about being a mom. It’s really the reason we ultimately decided to keep Leah. Beth—she wanted that little girl with all her heart. She only had her for a month, but it was long enough for my daughter to look just like her, to act like her. It’s almost like a soul left Beth’s body the day that car sliced through her and found a home in Leah’s heart, sharing space—mother and daughter welded together. It used to hurt looking at her, especially when she got older, a toddler with a personality and mannerisms. All I saw was Beth. But over the last year, I’ve realized how lucky I am to have this small piece of her with me every day. Now, I sneak her door open at night, casting a light across her face from the hallway, just so I can remember and find peace.

Leah’s footsteps literally tap along the wood at the top of the steps, and it piques both my mom and my interests; we move into her view, only to see Leah taking the steps one at a time, sitting, tucking her pink skirt around her legs to help her slide down each step more easily. She’s in pink—every pink thing she owns. And she’s wearing a pair of my mother’s pink high heels on her feet, rolled up socks stuffed in the back, poorly, to try to keep them on her feet.

She’s trying to look like Paige. I recognize it immediately. My mom arches a brow at me, almost like a warning. She has only spoken to Paige in passing, but I think she sees Leah’s fantasy being played out too. And I think it concerns her.

“Baby girl, I don’t think you’re quite ready for my shoes,” my mom says, meeting her halfway down the steps. Leah’s head falls, and I see the disappointment all over her face.

“But your outfit looks really nice,” I say, just wanting to see her smile again.

Leah bites her lip and holds on to the banister, trying to stand in my mom’s shoes to show me everything she has on. She twists from side to side, letting the pink material around her knees sway. “Do you think she would like it?” she asks, bottom lip fully sucked in her mouth.

She wants to be like Paige. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. But the moment I have that thought, I regret it, and I feel guilty for even thinking it—almost like Paige must hear my thoughts from wherever she is. I feel bad because I know it would hurt her feelings. And I feel bad because…I’m wrong. Why wouldn’t it be a good thing to be like Paige? The way Paige stood up to those kids, the way she’s trying to fix things with her sister—those things…they’re part of the kind of the person I want Leah to be.

“I think she’d love it. You can show her when she gets home from school tonight,” I say, Leah’s mouth returning to the smile she was wearing when she first tried to walk down the steps.

“What if we go with the sandals today, though—for safety?” my mom asks, holding her hand out for Leah’s foot. She takes each shoe off, rolling the socks in her hands. Leah nods a concession, and my mom walks her back upstairs to find her shoes, but she glances at me over her shoulder, that same concerned line of her lips.

When they come back downstairs, I pick Leah up, propping her at my side, and kissing her cheeks, marveling at her ability to remind me of others—it’s strange looking at her and seeing Beth and Paige.

After she and my mom leave, I pack my bag for class, and take off for my shift at the store. My classes are all late in the afternoon this semester. I’m only taking two, because one is an intense programming section, the other…Spanish. And even taking two is going to make my work schedule a challenge. There won’t be time to stop by the house often—no time to run into Paige.

When I get to the store, I help Chuck unload a few boxes in the back from the late-night deliveries, and he notices when I protect my hand.

“That from the other day?” he asks, remembering my run-in with Carson. Maybe not one of my finest moments, but damn, it felt good to put that guy in his place.

“No, this…was a different incident,” I say, turning, because I don’t want to look him in the eye. This would have been a good time to lie. But I’m so bad at lying, I couldn’t think of anything quickly enough.