Preschoolers chased each other with water guns.
My father fell asleep under an umbrella.
Marcus burned the first batch of hot dogs and blamed the breeze.
Evelyn remained at the edge of the activity.
She refilled drinks.
Gathered paper plates.
Retied a loose balloon ribbon to the fence.
When I asked whether she wanted to swim, she looked toward the crowded pool.
“Maybe later.”
“You’re wearing a swimsuit, Evelyn!” I said.
Her smile barely appeared. “That doesn’t mean I have to be brave enough to dive in.”
I assumed she meant the children splashing wildly around her.
After cake, the heat became unbearable.
Even Evelyn finally took off her cover-up.
Her swimsuit was a plain one-piece. She descended the pool steps cautiously, gripping the handrail.
Chloe was racing past with two friends when she stopped so abruptly that the children behind her collided with her.
She stared at Evelyn and pointed.
Every adult close enough to hear turned toward them.
For a moment, no one understood.
Then laughter rolled across the patio.
My father, awake by then, nearly dropped his lemonade.
Marcus lifted both hands from the grill.
“I can confirm I am not.”
I laughed too.
Evelyn glanced at her stomach, then gave me a look suggesting that children said strange things and everyone should move on.
Embarrassment warmed my face as I hurried toward Chloe.
“Sweetheart, we don’t point at people’s bodies.”
She remained completely certain.
I crouched beside her and gestured toward Marcus.
“Daddy is over there.”
He waved the grilling tongs.
Chloe looked at him, then back at Evelyn. Her expression collapsed.
“No. Daddy’s in there.”
She started crying.
Not the dramatic crying she used when refused another cookie.
This cry was frightened and real.
Chloe seized my wrist and dragged me toward the pool.
Evelyn climbed from the water and reached for a towel.
“Oh, Clarissa, honestly. She’s three!”
Chloe pulled harder.
“No, Mommy! I’m not lying. Look.”
I followed the direction of her finger.
At first, I saw only Evelyn’s smooth swimsuit fabric, cut sharply across her waist, exposing pale skin underneath.
Then Evelyn moved.
Beneath the high curve of the cut-out, a faded line of dark ink appeared along her ribs.
It was an old tattoo.
A lighthouse.
The ink had faded into blue-gray. Fine lines shaped a narrow tower surrounded by curling waves.
Beside it sat a tiny smiling sun.
A circle. Seven short rays. Two dots for eyes. One uneven curve for a mouth.
I had seen that sun countless times.
Marcus drew it on shopping lists.
On napkins.
On birthday cards.
On every note he slipped into Chloe’s lunch bag.
I rose too fast.
Something in my voice silenced the yard.
Marcus approached while wiping his hands on a towel.
