Rebecca
"Come on, Rebecca!" Megan calls, waving me over to the living room floor where she's spread out a constellation of colored paper, glue sticks, glitter, and oh god…sequins everywhere.
It's an explosion, the kind that would set most parents off, but Marcus just walks by with a mug of coffee and an arched brow, like he's fully resigned himself to a home decorated in sparkle.
"Dad says you're crafty," Megan says, inspecting me with the sly authority of someone who knows the rules and fully intends to break them.
"Rumors of my craftiness have been greatly exaggerated," I say, easing onto the floor and crossing my legs in a way I hope doesn't look like the world's most awkward yoga pose. "But I can hot glue with the best of them."
She grins, and there it is again—that inescapable pull that makes it so easy to see this little person as a person, not just a kid.
