Chapter 30: Mother's Day

I got down off the workbench and crouched so we were eye to eye.

Behind her, Jubal had stopped pouring coffee.

"Bug," I said. "I'm not your mama. I'm never going to pretend I am."

"I know that." She sounded a little insulted. "My mama lives in another state. She calls on my birthday."

"Okay."

"The paper says the lady who takes care of you."

She tapped her red clipboard.

"You check my inventory. You made Miss Wilma give me a gavel. You know I don't like the crust on the left side."

"Nobody likes the crust on the left side."

"See?" she said to her father. "She knows."

I looked up at Jubal over her head.

He didn't help me. He just waited, the way he always did, and let it be mine to say.

"Then I'll come," I said. "As your Haddie. If that's allowed."

She thought it over.

Then she wrote something on her clipboard, very carefully, and showed it to me.

MAY 7. HADDIE. CONFIRMED.

Her classroom had chairs built for people three and a half feet tall.

I sat on one in my work boots with my knees by my ears.

Every other woman in the room had a cardigan. I had a Kitt work shirt, because she'd asked me to wear it.

"So they know," she said.

The muffins were blueberry, from a box. The orange juice came in little cups with foil lids.

A boy at the next table stared at my shirt for a full minute.

"Do you drive a truck?"

"I drive twelve."

"At the same time?"

"Not at the same time."

He looked deeply disappointed.

At ten o'clock the teacher had each child stand up and read a card out loud.

Most of them started "Dear Mom" or "Dear Mommy."

When it was her turn, she stood on her chair, because she liked to see.

"Dear Haddie," she read. "You are not my mom. You are my Haddie. It is different. It is also good."

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