It was 97 degrees, windows cracked, sun glaring off the dashboard. I turned down the music and asked if she wanted water. Nothing.
My daughter just stared out the window, sweat dotting her upper lip, mouth slightly open. Then she whispered, “The lady in the tree told me not to go home.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror. “What lady, baby?”
She blinked slow. “The one behind the glass.”
I turned fully in my seat. “What glass?”
The one in your bathroom.”
My heart hiccuped. We’d left the house less than an hour ago. She’d been quietly coloring while I packed her bag. The only mirror in the bathroom is above the sink—across from the window that faces the woods.
She tugged at her dress, twisting it in knots. “She said you’re not Mommy anymore. She said you’re only wearing her.”
I laughed. Too loud. Tried to play it off like a game. “Did you make her up, silly goose?”
