Page 105 of It's Always Sonny

My whole life, they’ve treated me like I was a faulty showpiece they reluctantly put on display and removed when anyone saw the cracks in my façade.

They were wrong.

I’m not broken.

I’m not unlovable.

I’m Parker freaking Jane, and I am awesome.

“Are you okay?” Sonny calls.

“Great,” I answer. I slowly sit up, and Sweetness bleats and instantly moves toward me. He manages to get his hooves under him once or twice before his legs buckle and he’s crawling on the bent joint again. It’s tall enough for me to stand, but with the massive limb having crashed into the loft floor, I want to keep my weight spread out. Plus, I don’t want to risk passing out for real. I crawl carefully to Sweetness and scoop him up, holding him close.

He bleats and frantically bumps his face into mine over and over while I squeeze him.

“I got you,” I whisper, feeling his soft, fluffy coat against my cheek. His little heart is beating so rapidly, I can feel it at his ribs, just behind his elbows. “It’s okay, buddy. I got you.”

This adorable little goof is far from perfect, yet as he puts his face against mine, I can’t help thinking that it’s his imperfections that make him so endearing, so special, so imperfectly perfect.

The lesson isn’t lost on me.

“Everything okay?” Sonny asks.

“Yes! I got him!”

“I’m coming up,” Sonny says, but his family protests.

“You’re way too big to stand on that wall. You’ll bust it.”

“Or you’ll bust your knee.”

“Will I?” Sonny asks.

“Bust your knee?” Rusty asks.

“The wall.”

After a pause, Rusty says, “Let’s use a barrel to be safe.”

After a minute or two and a lot of grunting, I hear Sonny say, “Spot me.”

“If you rip one in my face, I’ll end you,” Gabe says.

Everyone groans.

“Not the time for fart jokes, sweetie,” Lauren says.

“Never the time for toot jokes,” Sonny’s mom says, both agreeing and correcting.

A gust of wind outside makes the tree shake, and that makes the loft creak, and suddenly, all the laughter vanishes.

The loft is holding now, but we’re pushing our luck. Part of the roof and wall are exposed, letting even more cold into the already chilly barn. Sweetness isn’t even a few weeks old. He needs his mother and some warmth ASAP.

I scoot on my butt across the floor until I get to the edge of the loft. The guys have moved two rain barrels up against the wall I walked across. They’re only about three-feet high, but they’re tall enough. Sonny has a foot planted on each, and his brothers are standing next to him on the ground, ready to catch him if he falls.

“Why don’t we just stack hay bales?” Noah asks.

“Because our bales aren’t square; they’re round,” Rusty says.

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