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same air of confidence, the same dazzling smile. Maybe she—
    â€œAre you the tooth fairy?”
    A child’s voice abruptly startled me out of my thoughts. I whipped around to see a little girl wearing shorts and a Disney princess T-shirt,staring at me from the bedroom doorway. She had long blond hair with bangs and the kind of poreless skin you usually only see on dolls. I wasn’t very good at estimating kids’ ages, but I guessed she was about four. “Wh-who are you?” I stammered. “How’d you get in here?”
    â€œI’m Sophie. I came in through the doggie door.” She looked up at me, her brown eyes solemn. “Are you the tooth fairy? ’Cause my sister has a loose tooth.”
    â€œUmm, no. No, I’m not.” I grabbed the robe and hurriedly pulled it on. “What are you doing in here?”
    â€œI came to see Snowball and Mizz McCauley. Sometimes she gives me cookies.”
    That sounded like Gran. Grinning, I struggled to fasten the sheer robe, which was fitted on top and held together by a rhinestone clasp at the waist. “She’s not here right now. Do you drop in through the doggie door very often?”
    â€œSometimes.” She tilted her head up and looked at me hopefully. “I know where the cookie jar is.”
    I laughed. “Well, then, why don’t you show me?” I followed her into the kitchen, the floaty circle skirt of the robe billowing around me. She dragged a chair from the breakfast table to the counter, the leg screeching on the wooden floor. She climbed up, stood on the seat, and reached for the cat-shaped jar on the counter. Lifting the lid, she pulled out an oatmeal cookie. “Would you like one?” she asked politely.
    I smiled at her hostessing skills. “Yes, thank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” She handed it to me, then extracted another cookie. Replacing the lid with great care, she set the cookie on the counter, climbed down, moved the chair back to the breakfast table, then retraced her steps to retrieve her treat. She carried it to the red stool in the corner—the stool where I’d spent hours as a child watching Gran bake—climbed up, and regarded me. “Are you a princess?”
    I looked down at the floaty negligee and smiled. “No. I’m Mrs. McCauley’s granddaughter.”
    â€œNuh-uh.” She shook her head. “You’re too old to be a granddaughter.”
    An irrational sense of dismay swept through me. Ever since I’d turned thirty, I’d become sensitive about my age, and as the numbers crept higher—next fall I’d be thirty-two—so did my awareness of my biological clock.
    â€œYou look more like a mommy,” Sophie said, biting off an edge of cookie and considering me as she chewed. “But you’re dressed like a princess or the tooth fairy.”
    It took some effort, but I didn’t laugh. “I promise I’m neither. But, Sophie—does your mom know where you are?”
    She nodded solemnly. “My mommy knows everything.”
    Her mother must have told her the old “mothers have eyes in the back of their heads” line that had made me search through my mother’s hair while she was asleep.
    â€œShe’s in heaven,” Sophie continued. “She lives there with God.”
    â€œOh.” The geoplates of my heart shifted. Losing my mother at the age of twenty-eight had been horrible. I couldn’t imagine losing a mother as a preschooler. “Well, your dad must be worried about you.”
    â€œNah. He’s busy.”
    â€œSo who’s watching you?”
    â€œGramma was, but she left and Aunt Jillian took over.”
    â€œSo . . . what’s Aunt Jillian doing?”
    â€œShe’s busy with Daddy.” She took another bite and chewed. “My sister hopes she’s gonna be our new mother.”
    Ooo-kay. I wondered just how busy they were.