His name was Felix.
He was Emma’s twin brother.
And he had been dead for two years.
I stood in the doorway, unable to decide whether to hug my daughter or take the cardboard figure away before the entire school turned her into a joke.
“Sweetheart, you know people are going to stare.”
Emma finally looked at me through the mirror.
“They already stare.”
“Not like this.”
She lowered her eyes to the photograph mounted on the cardboard. For a moment, the determination disappeared from her face, leaving behind the exhausted sadness I had seen too often since Felix died.
“I promised him something, Mom.”
“I know.”
“No, you know part of it.”
She turned toward me.
“I need you to promise me something, too. Whatever happens today, please don’t explain anything to anyone. Not even if people laugh. Not even if the principal tells me to leave.”
“Emma—”
“Please.”
