Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
four
HANNAH
Clara turned five tomorrow.
Beau didn’t make it home by bedtime on the eve of the day she’d been so excited about. She was disappointed that he wasn’t there to tuck her in on her last day of being four, but she hid it well. Impressively well for a girl who was not practiced at being disappointed by the people in her life.
It was the first time her father had ever let her down. She’d been disappointed by her body, modern medicine, and the universe who’d given such a big burden to a small body. Which was likely why everyone in her life—me included—bent over backward to make her comfortable in every other aspect of her existence.
I’d done a decent amount of research on childhood development and raising children. I wanted to be good at my side gig so that I’d get paid more, and I was curious. Maybe I wanted to heal my inner child too. If such a thing were possible.
I knew that children needed to build resilience to become productive, well-rounded adults. That you shouldn’t go out of your way to help them avoid discomfort. Clara had certainly had her share of discomfort.
Therefore, I was pissed that she had a downturn to her normally upturned lip. That her eyes welled up for a second while looking at the door and understanding that her dad wouldn’t be there to kiss her good night, to help farewell a difficult and painful year in her short life. To usher in a new one of hope and health.
I kept up the cheer—because Clara deserved that—kissed her good night, then started preparing.
I’d stashed the supplies in my room because no one went in there. Clara had been interested in my space when I first moved in. Beau had tried to set boundaries, telling her I needed my personal space, but I’d happily shown her how boring it was. Her room was much more entertaining. That’s where we spent a lot of time, decorating, lying in her teepee, telling stories before bed, having tea parties, doing fashion shows.
I’d been collecting decorations for weeks, finding the most unique things I could—spider garland, black and pink balloons. A variety of little gifts. Trivia books. An elegantly embossed insect encyclopedia that had vivid illustrations. A real porcelain tea set from a vintage store.
Clara had been counting down to this birthday. It felt monumental—her first one not being sick, the first where she could actually have a party. A big one. Well … big for her world.
I’d been praying the weather would hold. The only way she could be around even a handful of people was if we stayed outside, following every protocol, every precaution. If it rained, if the temperature dropped, it would all fall apart.
I checked the forecast obsessively. Her birthday promised the high seventies, a tiny miracle for that time of year. I prayed it stayed that way.
She deserved this—this sliver of normalcy, this chance to laugh with other children after months of isolation. She’d been starved of connection.
I knew it was a birthday Beau had feared she might never see.
I was trying to give him grace given this fact, but it was hard. The past week, he was grumpier than ever, a dark cloud blocking the sunshine that Clara brought to the house. And now he’d failed to tuck her in the night before her birthday.
I stomped around the house in anger as I arranged presents and decorations. I lividly blew up balloons, irritably climbing a ladder to string up my garland. Wrapped presents in vintage scarves and mismatched ribbons. I shoved in my headphones, playing a feminine rage playlist as my soundtrack for decorating the cake I’d made and put in the oven while Clara had her ‘quiet hour’ in her room earlier.
Something we’d instituted to help give her space, using it as reading time, to listen to music, or just wind down for the night.
I’d heard about the spider cake she’d been given before her bone marrow transplant, which was entirely cute and annoying since that had been my first idea. Then I’d heard that Nora from The Chaotic Baker had baked it and felt intimidated because there was no way I’d be able to replicate that deliciousness.
But I’d reasoned that anything full of sugar and frosting would taste good to a five-year-old, and if it didn’t, Clara would likely lie to protect my feelings.
I hope it didn’t suck.
Clara loved space, spiders, and all things weird. We’d recently been getting very into learning about fairies, toadstools, and all kinds of plants. I’d ordered outrageously expensive chocolate toadstools and was arranging them on the tiered ‘mossy’ woodland cake I made. It was dotted with sugar daisies, ladybugs, caterpillars, and some edible flowers. There was an adorable fairy figurine perched in the middle. Not edible, another gift for Clara. For her growing fairy garden. I’d already written a note from the ‘fairy’ on tea-stained paper about how she would like to live in Clara’s fairy garden and watch over her while she slept.