you float down the hallway in the early morning hours before anyone else has risen. the little one sleeps, and so does the older one, though he will sleep much longer and much deeper. for a fleeting moment you consider rousing him. doubt. fear. sadness at rebuttal. instead, you turn away from his door and towards the kitchen. there are preparations to be made, things to do, even though your own obligations still loom. priorities. sacrifices. opportunities taken and opportunities lost. 

strands of ribbon in your hand, drawn across a scissor blade before they are cut to shape, are one such opportunity. you secure them to the ceiling above the heavy dining room table, to the blades of the ceiling fans. across chairs, over counters. the dining room becomes an explosion of color, filled with curling tendrils of blue and gold. cheap trinkets, but they are all you have; all you can think of doing. 

next come the placemats, the plates, the silverware. the oven is almost hot enough, the machine that makes what the little one loves to eat ready to flip. a heavy, candied scent is on the air. honey and cinnamon. it rouses her from her slumber early and you hurry to find the lights, the switch.  

when the room is reilluminated, she is shocked, of course. it is early, even for you. much too early for her. she rubs sleep from her eyes; a lanky armed stuffed animal clutched in one hand. its apish features are faded, its threads more than bare. fuzzy swathes of cloth rest on her delicate limbs. much too large pajamas that swallow her up and pool on the floor at the bottom of each leg. you ruffle her hair and give the bundle of frizz a kiss. 

annoyance marks her otherwise joyful face for only a moment. the card and the small box on the table, both addressed to her, have stolen her attention away. you ask that she be patient. the machine is done and the oven needs to be checked on. she bounces with a quiet excitement while you flit about with the instruments in the kitchen. 

you’ve never done this on your own. it was difficult to parse the miniscule directions printed on the side of a heavy box. one that had been precariously retrieved from the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. Mother’s old things. the last pieces of her that you and the little one had, other than dusty photos. she would’ve gotten the box down, helped with the oven and the machine, set the table and made the ribbon. 

the last few years there had been none of that. while the older one slept, you and the little one were left to scrounge, to cry. to make do with what you had and what you could find. together. that was why it was so important that you hold the little one now, while she tore into the box. the smile on her face would stay with you forever. 

fountain pens. nothing expensive. nothing grand. you’d found cash in an unattended wallet and put it to better use than laying around. snuck out after class, to the store close to school, making sure to be back in time to pick up the little one and make sure she got home safe. 

she loved to write, to draw. she doodled always, in curling nothingness. in loops and patterns that made sense only to her. markers, crayons, pencils. anything that could influence canvas. you noticed, you understood. so, on this day, on her day, you wanted to show that. you wanted her to be seen and to be loved because you loved her. 

you gave the little one a hug and she hugged you back. you ate the pastries even though they were slightly burnt and you kept her from helping you with the oven because she still couldn’t reach. not that it mattered you barely could. you let her blow out candles and go to school late and held her hand the whole way. it was so close to normal, to nice. 

when you brought her home again you could see the anger in the eyes of the older one. a bad day. though a good day only meant you didn’t see him. you sent the little one to her room. you were a shield. a physical presence against his words and fervor. 

of course, there was a mess in the kitchen. of course, there was decor left out. you had thought, foolishly, that he might remember. you had hoped that he might understand. that when he received the call regarding your tardiness, he might consider the work you had done. the care. the consideration. 

you wished he would go back to sleep. you wished he wouldn’t ever make the little one cry again. you balled up your fists, swallowed your guilt and sadness and frustration, and accepted the anger so that she wouldn’t have to. that was your mission, after all. your purpose. 

it had been extended, again and again. another term, another delay. one more month, a few more weeks. the older one promised that things would be normal again, that there would be a family again. family. a whole word. a complete word. it was at odds with how broken it all felt. how broken you and the little one were. 

pieces and bits. scraps, like the things you rummaged out of containers when the older one forgot to refill the pantry. cuts and nicks, burns and welts. a collection of fragments you understood only in the context of having to do the things that must be done. for if they weren’t, the little one would suffer. 

when the older one did go back to sleep, and the little one returned to the dining room table, you waited. for doorbell chimes and the clamor of the house phone. it did eventually ring, though no complimentary noise ever echoed from the entry. some, at least, had the decency to call. to make excuses. the others simply left the little one in the lurch. 

you sat with her in the same place as the morning, in the same embrace. joy replaced with misery. happy smile smeared away under the weight of tears. how could they forget, she asks. you know the answer, but you tell her they may still come, knowing full well when they don’t, she will only fall deeper into despair. even still, you can’t bring yourself to tell her the truth. 

knowing what you do would break her. that smile would never come back. it would be as if that part of her, of Mother, was excised by reality. you existed to keep her safe, to protect that smile. to ensure that the world saw it each and every day. it was why you held her hand and let your shirt soak her tears. 

it was what woke you up every day, what got you dressed and kept you both fed. her sparkling eyes. her smile, beautiful even though it was incongruent. her creativity and thoughtfulness, her attempts at putting up ribbon for you a few months later. her pouting face at being denied the chance to use the machine. when you’re older, you tell her. 

she would grow older, as would you. the older one would get older still. he delivered on his promise of a family, but it was false, one sided. the woman was harsh and mean. angry. vitriolic. nothing like Mother. she had her own you and her own little one. 

you had hoped that the older one’s newfound conviction would keep him awake and aware. you hoped he would notice you now that the cupboards had been rearranged, and the kitchen changed around, and the rooms reshuffled. it only served to bury you and the little one. 

the other you and the other little one received the attention and the care that you had pleaded for. that you were promised. they took root and spread, and spread, until you and the little one couldn’t bear it. the weight of it forced you into nooks, into crannies, into the spaces that would hide you from the woman’s ire. still, you protected the little one. still, you grew, and you were dutiful in your mission.  

you ate, you ran, you left your boyhood behind to face the woman as a man. to protect the little one. to protect the smile you so rarely saw anymore. to protect your pride and your space and your right to exist that the older one refused to recognize. it had become so painfully ironic. the strong, principled officer reduced to a feeble henchman. 

feelings swirled around inside of you, pumping through your heart, circulating in your veins with reckless abandon. terror, fear, anger. the woman was hurting the little one. had been hurting her. she hadn’t wanted you to worry. she had lied to you to protect your feelings. it was wrong. it went against everything you understood. you were supposed to protect her. you had failed and she was hurt, hurting. 

you grabbed the woman’s arm and arrested it, palpable shock plain on her face. you wanted to break it. to snap it like the twig it felt like underneath the body of your rage. you wanted to hurt her. you wanted to make her cry like the little one had cried. to mark her body the way the little one had been marked. 

the little one stopped you. begged you. pleaded at your waist to leave the woman alone. enough time passed with her arm still solid in your grip, nails threatening to tear at flesh, that the little one broke down in tears all over again. so, you did. you spared her. you pushed down the feelings, and you focused on the teary-eyed charge whose arms clutched you nearly as hard as you had gripped the woman. 

you regretted it after, long after. the sound of her hand against the cheek of the little one would play over and over and over again in your mind as you grew even more. your resentment grew too, your frustration. your fear replaced with guts, with determination. you would never let her hurt the little one ever again. you would never let the little one hurt herself to protect you. you would never fail your mission like you had back then.