“Even if people stare at me?”
“People stare because they’re rude,” I said. “Not because you’re wrong. Your face doesn’t embarrass us.
Not ever.”
She nodded once, like she was filing it away for later, when she’d test whether we meant it.
The first week she asked permission for everything. Can I sit here? Can I drink water?
Can I use the bathroom? Can I turn on the light? It was like she was trying to be small enough to keep.
On day three I sat her down.
“This is your home,” I told her. “You don’t have to ask to exist.”
Her eyes filled. “What if I do something bad?” she whispered.
“Will you send me back?”
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