from falling, my shins getting scratched by blackberry thorns as I eased my way to the shore.
One afternoon late in the summer I came home to hear my mother speaking on the phone in the kitchen. I could tell by the edge in her voice that she was talking to my dad.
“She just got home,” she said. “Why don’t you tell her yourself.” She held the receiver out by the mouthpiece and motioned me in from the front hall.
“Hiya Kiddo,” my dad said. “How’s my girl?”
He wasn’t usually a chipper man. “Fine,” I said, twisting the coil of putty-colored phone cord between my finger and thumb. My mother busied herself chopping onions. I turned my back to her and leaned one shoulder against the wall.
“Listen, Rach, we got an offer on the house. A good one. I’ve discussed it with your mother and I think we should take it.”
I wondered if he could hear how weird it sounded when he called my mom “your mother.” Like he hadn’t always just referred to her as “Mom” when he spoke to me. Like we weren’t all in the same family. “And I think I found a nice little house for you guys. Zoned for your same school. A girl your age is living there now, her room is already painted pink. I thought you and your mom could come take a look at it later this week. You and I can go out to dinner.” He paused. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”