Page 91 of No Greater Love
"So," Sarah said, folding her hands on the table, "tell me about yourself, Paige. What's your favorite color?"
"Blue," Paige answered, her voice flat.
"Oh, how lovely! Mine too. What about your favorite book?"
"I don't really have one."
"Favorite animal?"
"Maybe axolotls. Or sloths."
Sarah's eyes lit up with what looked like practiced enthusiasm. "Sloths! Oh, that's wonderful. I saw a sloth at a rescue center in Costa Rica last year. They're such fascinating creatures—did you know they only defecate once a week? And they can rotate their heads 270 degrees!"
Paige looked confused, clearly not following the adult reference or understanding why someone would go to Costa Rica to see sloths. I saw her eyes dart to me, then to Tasha, seeking something familiar in this strange interaction.
"That's... neat," Paige said, because I'd raised her to be polite even when she was uncomfortable.
I tried to help, to bridge the growing awkwardness. "Paige, why don't you show Sarah the shirt you made at the beach? The tie-dye one?"
Paige pulled the shirt from her backpack and held it up briefly, but she didn't offer it to Sarah to examine more closely. It was a small thing, but telling.
"You're so creative!" Sarah beamed. "I used to love crafts too when I was your age. I made bracelets, painted rocks, all sorts of things."
Everything was about Sarah. Every response circled back to her own experiences, her own interests. She wasn't learning about Paige; she was trying to find ways to make herself relatable.
thirty-one
tasha
I watchedPaige's body language with growing alarm. She was tucking into herself, shoulders hunching, eyes darting between Nate and me like she was looking for rescue. This wasn't a nervous child warming up to someone new. This was a kid who sensed something fundamentally wrong but couldn't articulate what.
Sarah kept pushing, seemingly oblivious to Paige's discomfort.
"I have a wonderful house now," Sarah was saying, "with a big yard and a pool. There's even a craft room where we could do projects together. When you come visit, we could?—"
"Why would I visit you?" Paige interrupted, her voice small but clear.
Sarah's smile flickered for just a moment before returning full force. "Well, because I'm your mother, sweetie. We have so much time to make up for."
Paige was quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant and intent. When she finally spoke, her voice had that matter-of-fact quality only children possessed, able to cut straight through adult bullshit with devastating simplicity.
"No, you're not," she said, looking directly at Sarah. "Tasha's my mom."
The words hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. I felt my heart simultaneously soar with fierce pride and sink with the knowledge of what Paige had just handed Sarah's lawyers.
Sarah's smile froze on her face, and for just a second—less than a heartbeat—I saw something cold and furious flash in her eyes. Not hurt. Not the pain of a mother being rejected by her child. This was anger at Paige herself, rage that an eleven-year-old wasn't playing the role Sarah needed her to play.
"Oh," Sarah said, her voice artificially bright, "that's... well, that's very sweet that you care about Tasha. But I'm your biological mother, Paige. That's a special bond that?—"
"I don't want a special bond," Paige said, and there was steel in her voice that reminded me exactly whose daughter she was. "I already have everything I need."
The temperature at the table dropped about twenty degrees. Sarah's composure was cracking, and I could see her struggling to maintain the maternal facade.
"Maybe we should wrap this up," Nate said quietly, recognizing the signs.
"Of course," Sarah said, but her voice was tight now. "It was lovely meeting you, Paige. I hope we can do this again soon."
"I don't," Paige said with devastating honesty. "Can we go home now, Dad?"
