Locked it.
And for the first time, it did not feel like a box of shame.
It felt like a record of survival.
The next morning, Emma woke before sunrise and climbed into my bed.
“Mommy,” she whispered.
I opened my eyes immediately.
“What is it?”
She smiled.
“Can we make pancakes?”
I looked at the clock.
6:12.
Too early.
Far too early.
But her face was bright.
Her voice was clear.
Her body was awake because it wanted to be, not because some adult had controlled it.
So I threw back the blanket.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s make pancakes.”
In the kitchen, she cracked eggs badly.
Shell fell into the bowl.
Flour dusted her pajamas.
She spilled milk on the counter.
She talked the entire time.
About school.
About planets.
About how bunny probably needed a birthday.
About how cucumbers were still suspicious.
I listened to every word.
Every loud, unnecessary, beautiful word.
And when she laughed with her whole body, I did not tell her to calm down.
I did not tell her to lower her voice.
I did not tell her good girls are quiet.
I turned up the music.
I took her sticky hands.
