She liked matching socks because she considered it a game.
I was pulling towels from the dryer when she suddenly climbed behind me and squeezed into the narrow space beside the washing machine.
My whole body tightened.
Then she popped back out laughing.
“Daddy, look. I fit.”
For half a second, all I could see was the yellow dress.
The tears.
The red cheek.
Her knees pulled against her chest.
Then Emma held up two socks that did not match at all and announced that they were “best friends anyway.”
I laughed.
A real laugh.
She had taken the place where I had found her terrified and turned it back into an ordinary corner of our home.
That mattered more to me than any apology Brooke could have offered.
The question Emma had whispered in the car after Sophie’s party finally had a complete answer.
No, she did not have to apologize to Aunt Brooke.
