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“Is she asleep?”
The car crunches over their gravel driveway as it slows to a stop, and Daddy’s voice is low in the passenger seat. Mummy is driving and if Mia opened her eyes, she might be able to see her through the dark; the porch light they left on might shine through the windshield and glow on her face and her sparkly earrings, the ones she put in earlier when Mia was sprawled out on her bed, talking to her as she got dressed.
“I think so,” Mummy says, and the car hums through Mia’s forehead where she’s boneless against the window. There’s a quiet shifting, and she knows Mummy’s turned in her seat to check. “She’s out cold—” the car engine shuts off “—want me to carry her in?”
“Nah, I’ve got her.”
Two seatbelts click open and the straps whoosh up; a rustling as Mummy fishes through her purse, looking for her keys. The front doors click unlocked. The rubber soles of Daddy’s converse drop to the gravel and she hears the handle of the backseat door pulled on once, twice—
“Back’s locked,” his voice calls out, still quiet. Eyelids kept tightly shut, Mia darts her eyes toward the driver’s seat as Mummy’s breathy oh is followed by the door popping open.
The window falls away and her head lolls sideways after it, but she lands against the soft fleece of Daddy’s pullover. His cologne is familiar and his fingertips tickle her forehead, brushing stray hairs from falling over her face that’s tucked under his chin. He’s always been good at picking her up without any jostling, so she’s lifted easily into his arms and melts against him. The steady beat of his heart is warm against her ear.
He’s curled her up in both arms, so when she hears the soft click of the car door closing, it must be Mummy. A moment later, the faint scent of strawberry shampoo clinging to Mummy’s hair tickles her cheek and a fluttery kiss is pressed to her temple. She adjusts Mia’s collar around her neck to close her away from the December cold, and her hands still smell like the purple flowers they brought for dinner at Nana and Papa’s.
The pattern of Daddy’s walk sways Mia against his side. Her eyelids flutter against his jacket and her fingertips curl into the fabric before she can remember that moving will give her away.
“I think you’ve got the keys.” Mummy is looking through her purse again when they reach the porch: Mia hears the plastic clink of reading glasses against a chapstick tube, the crinkle of a wrapper (the fruit gummies she had earlier, probably), loose change and the cardboard-y sound of her travel-size box of crayons being pushed around.
“Left jacket pocket,” Daddy tells her, and her hand brushes Mia’s knee as she reaches to get her hand into the pocket hidden behind Mia’s hip.
She hums her success—a small, satisfied noise that makes Daddy’s shoulders twitch with a silent laugh. The keys jingle and the screen door squeaks as it opens. The spring whines and he shuffles forward to hold it open: Mia feels his body weight shifting as he sticks out a foot to prop it open while Mummy unlocks the front door.
“Remind me to fix that door tomorrow,” he says.
“Remember to fix the door tomorrow,” she says teasingly, her voice sparkly even though it’s hushed. Mia’s head shifts as Daddy’s shoulders rise and fall with a dramatic sigh. The door unlocks and pushes open, and if he was going to say something back, it fades as they step inside and the warmth of their home prickles against the cold of Mia’s cheeks. Winter is closed outside as Mummy shuts the door behind them, turning the handle before she pushes it closed so it makes less noise.
From somewhere across the foyer, Mia hears the pull of a zipper as Mummy takes off her coat, and Daddy leans from one foot to the other as he toes off his shoes. Her jaw bumps against his collarbone and he presses a kiss to her forehead in apology; her eyebrows twitch at the touch.
A gentle palm splays across her back, and the soft sound of someone breathing appears near her head. Mummy’s fingers unsnap the buttons on her jacket as Daddy tilts her body just slightly away from him, and he adjusts his grip when she’s done to help slide the coat off Mia’s shoulders and down her arms. Pliable in her sleepy, late-night haze, Mia lets them move her. If she were wide awake, she’d squirm and wriggle against the same actions.
“Can you get her shoes, too?” Daddy’s words are soft and low, rumbly in his chest. Mia feels his voice like it’s rumbling straight out of his body and into hers. The velcro on her light-up sneakers is undone with a quiet rip, and Mummy shimmies them off her feet, stroking gently at her ankle before pulling away.
Daddy takes the stairs slowly, one by one, so she doesn’t jostle too much in his arms. She knows he does a good job because when she really does fall asleep in the car, she never wakes up when he carries her into the house. He cradles her against his body and her ear is right above his chest, where she can hear his heart beating through his skin. Sometimes when he holds her while she’s awake, she taps the beat with her little finger against his collarbone.
(She does it with Mummy, too, but lately she’s been keeping the beat against the soft swell of her stomach instead of her shoulder.
“I want Jack to hear it,” she’d said, and Mummy had hugged her so close she’d felt like she could melt right back into her—a part of her body, like Jack still is.)
She hears the switch of the hallway light turn on and the backs of her eyelids glow yellow. There’s a quiet rustling of blankets being pulled back on the bed, and Daddy sits down at the edge of the mattress, laying Mia carefully against the sheets, gently pulling her braid back behind her as he rests her head against the pillow.
“Here,” Mummy whispers, and something is pressed kindly into Mia’s arms. Bunny. She curls the stuffed animal close to her chest as Daddy unravels her braid and brushes her hair loose. A thumb strokes like a feather across her temple and his kiss to her head is just as soft.
“Goodnight, my love,” Mummy whispers, and the ends of her hair tickle Mia’s face as she presses her own kiss to the apple of her cheek.
“Don’t let the bed bugs,” Daddy says. Someone pulls the blankets up under her chin and tucks them around her shoulders. The weight at the edge of the bed lifts and two pairs of footsteps walk away.
She hears the door creak, but it doesn’t close—left propped open just enough that they could hear if she called out in the night. Behind her eyelids, the golden glow from the hallway light dims to nothing, and footsteps pause in front of her door.
“You know she’s pretending,” Mummy says. (Under her blankets, Mia scrunches up her nose and squirms. Busted. ) “She does it every time.”
There’s a quiet sound of fabric and shuffling and a soft, contented sigh, and Mia imagines Daddy is folding Mummy under his chin into a hug like he does all the time. His hugs are bigger when he’s tired.
“And I’ll carry her to bed every time,” he murmurs. Mia can only barely hear his voice, soft and distant as they stand just outside her door, but the words are fuzzy in her chest and she wants to keep them forever.
But the words fade and Mummy and Daddy walk away. Mia holds Bunny closer to her chest and listens to their footsteps and quiet voices, to the light switch in the bathroom go on and back off and she sees the faint light change outside her door when it does. A clothes hanger slides across the bar in their closet and the wicker hamper opens and shuts.
Finally, Mia falls asleep, lulled out under the soft twinkle of stars that her night light scatters across the ceiling by the quiet, soothing footsteps of Mummy and Daddy getting ready for bed in the next room.