I go to the hall and take out the book from my coat and find a seat in that room by the kitchen. I open it and read the words over again. I can't get past the page with the pictures. I lean back and take in the room, layered in fabrics, and strewn with toys, and bathed in the lingering smells of dinner. I cover my face with the book and hope that I will still be able to breathe.
Feet come padding down the hall.
I listen as they stop, then move, then stop at my arm. I look up and the girl is there, humid and pink, and holding a book of stories. She climbs up on my lap, as if I'd always had one, and opens her book to the middle. She names things quietly with her short, chubby finger and turns the page. Her body is clad in fuzz and warmth and the weight of her is settling.