“Near Hawthorn Lane?”
A strange feeling passed through me.
“Actually, yes. Why?”
She studied my face for a second longer than was comfortable.
Then she smiled.
“No reason. You just look familiar.”
The next morning, Nadine handed me a sealed cardboard box.
Every rabbit had been carefully wrapped in old newspaper.
That evening, Piper sat cross-legged on the motel bed while I placed the box in front of her.
“I thought presents were Saturday when I see Dad.”
“This one’s from me.”
She tore through the tape.
The first rabbit wore a blue coat and carried a tiny carrot.
Piper gasped.
Then she unwrapped another.
And another.
By the sixth one, she was laughing.
“Mom, there’s a whole bunny village in here!”
She arranged them across our tiny table and windowsill, making up names as she went.
“Professor Bunny. Mrs. Carrot. Mayor Rabbit. Grumpy Rabbit.”
I picked up one with a crooked smile.
“Why is this one grumpy?”
“Look at his eyebrows.”
I laughed.
For the first time in weeks, that motel room didn’t feel depressing.
It just felt like a room where my daughter was happy.
Then Piper picked up a small rabbit holding a blue flower.
“Mom, this one’s wobbly.”
The bottom wasn’t flat.
“Put him somewhere safe.”
She reached toward the windowsill.
The rabbit slipped.
Piper caught it for half a second before it hit the floor.
Porcelain shattered across the carpet.
Her smile disappeared.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Don’t touch the sharp pieces.”
I grabbed a towel and crouched beside her.
Then Piper went very still.
“Mom?”
Something in her voice made me look up.
She was holding a tightly rolled photograph.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know. It was inside the rabbit.”
I took it from her.
My stomach dropped.
It was my third-grade school photograph.
I was eight years old.
Exactly Piper’s age.
Same brown hair I’d hated because it curled around my ears. Same missing front tooth. Same ridiculous yellow sweater my father had insisted looked cheerful.
