Chapter 6 - The Daycare Question
That Monday morning I put the silver frame in my backpack myself. Dad had said I could bring it if I was careful, and I was careful. I wrapped it in the small washcloth from the bathroom and tucked it between my change of clothes and the snack pouch. The metal was cold through the cloth. I zipped the backpack and held the strap tight the whole way down the hall so it wouldn't bump.
Dad drove. Jenna sat in the passenger seat. Her cream sweater was gone, she had on a gray zip-up instead, but her hair was the same, straight and blonde behind her shoulders. She didn't try to hold my hand when she buckled me in. She just checked the chest clip and said, "You got it?"
I nodded. I didn't open the backpack again until we got to daycare.
At Little Sprouts the pickup line ran along the side of the building. It was really a sidewalk and a chain-link fence and a parking lot with faded white lines. Parents stood or idled their cars while Ms. Alvarez walked kids out one by one. I remembered the smell of the rubber mats inside and the cubbies with taped names.
Ms. Alvarez crouched when it was my turn. She was holding my sheet with the sun sticker I got for nap time. She smiled at Dad first, then at Jenna, then at me.
"There's our Sofia," she said. "Did you have a good day, sweet pea?"
I nodded. My backpack felt heavy on my shoulders.
She glanced at Jenna and her smile stayed in place, but her eyes moved back to me. "Is this your mommy picking you up today? You two look so pretty together."
It was quiet except for the minivan idling behind us and a little boy crying by the fence. Jenna didn't answer for me. She kept her hands in her zip-up pockets. Dad shifted his weight and his silver watch caught the light.
I felt the washcloth and the frame against my back. I looked at Jenna's face and then at Ms. Alvarez.
"She's not my mommy," I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It was the same quiet way I'd said it in my bedroom that night, tearful but clear. I didn't whisper. I said it to Ms. Alvarez, to Jenna, to Dad, to anyone standing there.
Ms. Alvarez blinked. Her mouth opened a little and then closed. She looked at Dad quickly, like she wanted to fix it.
"Oh," she said softly. "I'm sorry, honey."
Dad knelt down next to me right there on the sidewalk. His navy sweater brushed my backpack. I could see the light stubble on his cheek and the wedding band on his left hand as he rested it on his knee. He didn't pull me closer. He didn't shush me.
He looked up at Ms. Alvarez, not at Jenna.
"She's right," he said. His voice was even, a little tired. "Jenna's our— she's with us. Sofia's mom passed away last spring. Sofia's telling the truth."
He said it plain, not like an apology and not like an explanation that needed more. He didn't add a story about why Jenna was there or how long. He just said it and let it sit.
Ms. Alvarez's cheeks went pink. She touched my shoulder lightly.
"Thank you for telling me, Sofia," she said. "Thank you for telling me who your family is."
Jenna stepped forward half a step then. She didn't touch me either. She looked at Ms. Alvarez.
"I'm Jenna," she said. "I help at home. I'm not trying to be Mom."
That was all. No extra words.
On the walk to the parking lot Dad carried my backpack in one hand and held my hand with the other. The asphalt was warm from the sun. Jenna walked a little behind us. I could hear her shoes on the lot.
When we got to our car Dad unlocked the back door and set my backpack on the seat. He unzipped it and checked the washcloth. The frame was still there, glass unbroken. He looked at me and took a slow breath.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded. I watched his face for if he was mad. He wasn't. His brow was furrowed the same way it had been when he knelt in my room that first night, but softer.
"You did good to say what was true," he said quietly, just to me. "Even when it's awkward for grown-ups. That's not your fault."
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Jenna stood by the passenger door, waiting. I looked at her and she gave me a small nod, not a big smile. It didn't feel like she was upset.
I climbed in and buckled myself. Dad shut the door gently and we backed out past the fence. I held the backpack on my lap the whole way home.
