Olivia’s actions were soft, her arms and legs flowed like the delicate branches of a willow tree, and her fine hair brushed her shoulders in soft, swift movements. Real life hadn’t yet marred her skin; innocence and tenderness remained on the surface. From her perch on the couch, Megan could feel the angst that Olivia was swallowing and watched as she tucked it behind the lump in her narrow throat. Megan’s pride was replaced with guilt which simmered just below the surface of her skin. “Livi,” she said gently. “I know you want to be there tonight, but you understand, don’t you? This is something that I do with them every year. It’s…” she gazed out the window and watched the trees blow in the gentle breeze, “It’s our thing.” Olivia rolled her eyes, turned to her mother, and sighed. She planted her hands on her hips. “I know! okay? I hear it every year,” her voice rose. “Your friends, your thing. When do I get to be part of it, Mom? When is it my turn to be part of your world?”
