It was a drawing.
My daughter had drawn our family.
There was me.
There was her.
There was Grandma.
There was Dad.
But the figures weren’t standing together.
I stared at the picture.
Grandma had been drawn huge.
Her arms stretched almost to the edges of the paper.
My daughter was tiny.
She was standing behind a door.
I looked closer.
There was something written above the door.
I recognized my daughter’s handwriting.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
DON’T LET GRANDMA KNOW I TOLD.
My husband went pale.
“That’s nothing.”
I looked at him.
“Why would she draw that?”
“She’s eight.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because she is!”
My daughter suddenly spoke.
“Mom?”
I turned toward her.
She was looking at the drawing.
Her face had gone white.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
I walked over.
“I found it in your backpack.”
