Switch. Megan Hart

the red satiny fabric and peeked at the label, her eyes going a little wider at what she saw. Then she put the shirt back in the box with a thank-you even a nine-year-old could tell was forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the garage a few years later, in the box of rags my dad used for cleaning his cars.

      I wasn’t nine years old any longer. I wasn’t even a teen in too-thick eyeliner and a too-short skirt. I’d learned how to dress and how to speak, but part of me would always be my mother’s daughter, at least in Stella’s eyes.

      “Oh, Paige, what a thoughtful gift.” Stella lifted out the box of paper and opened it to pull out the pen. She wiggled it so the tiny tassel danced. “Very pretty. Thank you.”

      I let out a long, silent sigh. “You’re welcome.”

      “Where do you find such pretty things?” Stella continued. She turned to face her audience. “Paige always finds the prettiest things.”

      That was it. Bells didn’t ring, little birdies didn’t fly around on rainbow glitter wings. She’d said thank-you, and I thought she meant it. That was all.

      I still managed to slip away before the party was over. My dad caught me at the door. He insisted on hugging me.

      “Thanks for coming.” I’m sure he meant it, too.

      I doubt there’s anyone who does not have a complicated relationship with his or her parents, so I’m not saying I’m special or anything. Considering the circumstances of my birth, I’m lucky to have any sort of relationship with my dad. For the most part, at least, it’s an honest relationship. Except of course when honesty is too painful.

      “Of course I’d come,” I told him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

      “Of course you would,” my dad said. “Well, I’m glad you did. How’s the new place?”

      “It’s great.” With his arm still around me, I wanted to squirm away. “It’s a very nice place.”

      “And the new job?”

      The job I’d had for almost six months didn’t feel so new anymore. “It’s great, too. I like my boss a lot.”

      “Good. You’re up on Union Deposit Road, right?”

      “Progress,” I told him. “Just off Progress.”

      “Oh, right. Well, hey, maybe I should swing by some day and take you to lunch at the Cracker Barrel, what do you say?”

      “Sure, Dad.” I smiled, not expecting him to ever follow through. “Just call me.”

      He kissed my cheek and hugged me again, making a show of making me his daughter. It was nice, in that way we both knew was shallow but served its purpose.

      The moment I got in my car and the door to the house shut, my every muscle relaxed. I blew out another series of long, slow breaths and lifted my arms to let my pits air out. I’d be sore tomorrow in places I hadn’t realized I’d clenched. I was already getting a headache. I’d made it through another big family event without anything going wrong.