I know that because she kept a paper chain taped to the side of the refrigerator in our kitchen, and every morning before school she tore off one link with the kind of ceremony most people reserve for champagne corks and New Year’s Eve. By the week of her birthday, there were only seven rings left, and she made each one into an event.
“Six more sleeps, Dad.”
“Five more sleeps.”
“Four.”
By the last morning, she came downstairs in mismatched socks, her hair half-brushed, and that enormous smile that always made her look younger than she was.
“Today,” she announced, like a tiny mayor delivering good news to the nation.
Emily laughed from the stove, where she was flipping pancakes. “Yes, ma’am. Today.”
Continue on the next page:
