melinda had always wanted a family.
jim had been the first to bring it up in the casual way they shared their love, gentle and sweet.   â how many rooms should we put in the house? â   heâd asked a few months into their engagement, and melinda had said,  ââ well, we need an office, donât you think? ââ   she danced with his baby niece on a lazy sunday afternoon in the kitchen when he said,   â youâre gonna make a great mom someday, â   and melinda, grinning with all her teeth, had kissed his cheek and replied,   ââ i probably make a better aunt. ââ
and that was the game they played. heâd roll the ball into her court as gently as heâd hold her, and she, ever-stubborn, would always push it back, afraid of what that future could mean. as much as her mother tried to pretend, the truth was always there: her familyâs gift had stretched three generations now, and she wasnât sure if she was ready to make it fourâ even if she did coo at every baby that passed her by, or lay in bed and dream of how amazing a father jim would be.Â
now, jim was gone, and there was no room for dreaming anymore. suddenly, what sheâd always wanted to say but never got to stretched to all the corners of the house, through the doorway he carried her through that first nightâ his clothes in the hamperâ a glass of water, untouched, on his side of the bed. and yes, melinda knows in a way only she can that heâs not really gone. jim was just on the other side of the window, his fingertips tracing the silhouette of her hair, his lips at the corner of her own, waiting until he could reach past the pane and pull her into his arms again. but the light doesnât bring her much comfort now. it doesnât bring back the chapters that were ripped so unceremoniously out of her life, or the family that shouldâve filled the pages full 'til the epilogue. she sat in that quiet, empty house all alone, in a bed twice as big as her, and made the only decision that made sense in a long time:
family would have to mean something else.
oliviaâs last foster mom was in a hurry to usher her out. melinda stood and ignored the laughter of a full house just past the door, shaky hands balled into the pockets of her coat. she was nervous in a way she didnât expect when sheâd first spoken to the social worker, but then again, she supposed there was a difference between words and action. she smiled down at the girl and saidâ
ââ hey, livvy. iâm melinda. itâs nice to finally meet you. ââ
she thought of her grandma as they stood face-to-face, the car running behind her, ready to pick up a girl sheâd only known from a distance. the first thing she noticed was how small she wasâ smaller than the pictures made her seemâ and the fragility of it sent her heart into her throat. to make matters worse, though the crisp autumn air bit at her own nose, livvy wasnât wearing a jacket. who let her out without one? melinda went to ask, but the only other adult had disappeared back into the house again, front door ajar so the light of the living room spilled out onto the driveway.
in the brief silence between them, they shared a moment.
livvy looked up at her with a gaze too old for her age, and melinda nearly flinched. it was a look she recognized, not just then but from her own childhood, too, the hollowness of her eyes too big for her tiny body. when mary ann had come eleven years too late and whisked melinda from the only hell sheâd ever known, did they share this same glance? did her grandma worry she wouldnât be enough, too?
the moment was gone as quick as it came. the woman returned, interrupting to drop a trash bag at her feet, and, with a mix of both horror and anger, melinda realized that was all the girl had.
ââ donât do that. ââ Â Â sheâd snapped, and couldâve screamed at the confusion the other wore.
ââ treating her stuff like itâs garbage. how do you think that makes a kid feel? ââ
her irritation eats at her the whole car ride back. olivia ( livvy, she rehearses in her head ) knows so little about her, and melinda perhaps too much. what kind of anger has she seen that the social workers hadnât? is she afraid of her already? can melinda make the empty house a home for her, even though itâs hardly one for herself?Â
she tries to push back her anxiety with each turn of the wheel, chattering now and then to fill the space between them; she even does her best to ignore a spirit staring at them from the side of the road, thumb up for a ride to gods-knows-where. itâs still not enough.
ââ okay, so⌠ââ   melinda begins after theyâve brought @pyreshe's things upstairs, pacing around the girlâs newly-decorated room ( frilly comforter and all ),   ââ weâve got nightlights, and, uhâ some books. i know the bedsetâs a little much, but i figured after you get settled, maybe we could have a girlâs trip, just you and me. oh! andâ where is itâ ââ   she remembers what sheâs looking for even before sheâs finished talking. turning over her shoulder towards the nightstand, she opens a drawer to pull out a whiteboard, shiny and new. a clean slate.   ââ ta-da! ââ
melindaâs not expecting an answer, and knows there doesnât have to be. she remembers the years she crawled into the jaws of her own heart, tucked behind the teeth sheâd been taught to bear. she meets the silence with softness, kneeling down slowly so her gaze can meet livvyâsâ so she can coax the girl out of the wolfâs mouth.
ââ iâm sure this is all a little scary, ââ   she says, and cringes slightly at how much of an understatement that must be,   ââ if it makes you feel better, iâm a little scared, too. you know more about this than i do. but⌠ââ   she pulls out a marker from the pack in her hand, holding the whiteboard out to her.   ââ maybe we can be scared together? ââ