Hannah leaned against the kitchen doorway in her sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun, one eyebrow raised.
« I’m not crying. I’m just allergic to birthdays. »
« Uh-huh? »
She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around my waist the way she used to when she was seven. I held on maybe a beat too long.
« I’m just allergic to birthdays. »
« Your brother would be so proud of you, » I whispered into her hair.
« I know, Mom. I feel him. I always do. »
I let her go before I turned into a puddle on the linoleum. She grabbed a piece of birthday fruit and floated back upstairs to get ready.
I walked down the hallway to steady myself.
I let her go.
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