She touched the handlebar lightly. “This one?” she whispered.
Emily smiled. “If you want it,” she said.
Amanda looked at me. “Is it too expensive?” she asked, voice cautious—the way kids learn to ask when they’ve been taught they’re a burden.
My chest tightened.
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re not too expensive.”
Amanda swallowed hard.
Then she nodded. “I want it,” she said.
The shop owner fitted her helmet, adjusted the seat, and walked her outside.
Amanda climbed on and wobbled at first, then steadied.
She pedaled down the sidewalk, hair bouncing, laughing.
It was the kind of pure joy a child should get to have without conditions.
Emily squeezed my hand. “Look at her,” she whispered.
I swallowed, eyes stinging. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m looking.”
When we got home, my mother was waiting on our porch.
Not with Richard.
Alone.
She stood with a small gift bag in her hands, shoulders squared like she was practicing bravery.
Amanda froze when she saw her.
Emily stayed close.
I stepped forward. “Mom,” I said quietly.
She nodded. “I’m not here to fight,” she said. “I’m here to apologize.”
Amanda’s eyes widened. “For what?” she asked, small.
My mother knelt down slowly, careful not to rush.
“For laughing,” she said, voice trembling. “For not stopping him. For letting you feel small.”
Amanda stared at her for a long moment, then whispered, “It hurt.”
