Hey, Nice Genes

Hey, Nice Genes

A Pueblo Story

SHANNON

The déjà vu was thick. It was as if I were reaching back into my own memories instead of being there for Lucinda. She was the same age that I had been when my parents broke up, and I could see a reflection of my own anger at the time in her eyes. The setting wasn't helping things.

We were in her principal's office, waiting to get the full breakdown. Just like it had been when the parents of the bullies who had gone after Gus at the ice-skating rink had tried to get us kicked out of school, it was me and Aunt Liz as Lucinda's advocates. I almost felt bad for the man. He had two partners from one of the largest law firms in Pueblo sitting in his cramped office, ready to pounce.

There was almost a stammer to his voice. "Okay. Right. Um, are we waiting for Mr. Kirschbaum?"

For the first time, the anger fled from Lucinda's eyes, and was quickly replaced by something resembling panic. It annoyed me to no end that she was desperate not to have her father there, but didn't seem to care less that I was in the principal's office because she had supposedly punched someone. Yeah, it wasn't a shock. There'd been a bond between them that I couldn't fully understand since the first time he held her in his arms.

"No, Dr. Peterson. He's not going to be able to make it. This is my aunt, Liz Armiggido. Are the parents of the other children coming down?"

That's when my wonderful daughter decided to speak up. "I didn't even do anything. And they deserved it."

Putting my lower lip between my teeth, I closed my eyes and asked God for a little patience. After I sighed, I looked to my daughter. "We're going to talk about this, Shannon, but not right now. But yeah, rest assured we'll get to talk about this. I'm sorry Doctor, are we waiting for the other parents?"

He quickly shook his head. "No. They both decided that no damage had been done and they're taking the rest of the day to be with their sons, but they weren't interested in pressing the issue. We just, well, we have a zero-violence policy here. So, it has to be addressed. You understand."

"All right. Can you explain what happened?"

"Yes. Of course. There were in their lunch period, there was an argument of some sort, I believe some name-calling, and Lucinda punched one, and then the other."

I sat there taking it in for second. "I see. And the boys did what before this?"

"You mean, aside from the argument? Nothing. We checked the video. There was no precipitating violence. They didn't touch her. And Mrs. Kirschbaum? The issue, well it goes a little deeper. I watched the video three or four times. Lucinda was way too self-possessed. She knew exactly what to do, how to position herself, how to shift from one person to the next. Do you have her in some sort of martial art training?"

Again, I closed my eyes for a second and shook my head. "Not exactly. Yeah. I'm starting to get the bigger picture here, but no, no martial arts. Thank you for bringing us in. I promise you, this will be addressed by her father and I. In the meantime, what can we do to make this right with the school?"

Lucinda was being suspended for a week, but would have to stay current on all of the work. That wasn't going to be an issue. I'd take her into the firm with me every day, and if she wasn't doing her school work, we would have plenty of busywork for her to do. We'd keep her running back and forth so much that she'd never want to pull any of this BS again.

I kept my cool until we were out in the parking lot. Liz and I had parked next to each other, and by the time I was at the driver's side door, I was about to explode.

"Do you want to explain to me what the heck you think you were doing? Putting your hands --"

Aunt Liz gently put a hand on my shoulder, and I quickly calmed down. As I took a deep breath, she approached Lucinda.

"You know I'm disappointed in you, right? But you also know that I love you to pieces, and I always will. You can't resort to violence, Lucinda. You simply can't. We could sit down and talk about when violence might be appropriate, like if you have to protect your brother or your sister, or if someone is trying to hurt you, but an argument? There are no words that are strong enough to merit violence. I'm sad, and I'm disappointed, but I'll get over it. I love you, cuddle bug. You want a hug?"

Red-faced, Lucinda looked like she could smash bricks with her hands. She wouldn't look at me, and she wouldn't look at Aunt Liz. Her spindly little arms were wrapped around herself, as if keeping her in check, not allowing anything to spill out. She finally gave a small nod and my aunt, the woman who had always been my protector, wrapped her in her arms.

All of the anger seeped out of me as I saw the tension in my daughter fade away. She wouldn't cry. I knew that. Lucinda would never cry. She would think of that as allowing somebody else to win, to have something over her. But she would relax, she would soak up every ounce of love Liz was offering her, and she would find some peace.

"Honey, we just don't do that. That's not who we are. We use our words, not our fists. You know that. That's, I don't know, just just who we are."

She took a step back from Liz, turned and glared at me.

"That's who you are! That's who Aunt Liz is. I'm not like you. The two of you are the same. In everything. I'm not number three. I'm just me, and I'm not like you. I don't always have words. I'm not smart like the two of you. I'm just... I'm just me."

She stomped around the car to the passenger side, open the door, flung in her book bag and sat in the backseat. Every day felt like a battle to not lose my daughter. I gave Liz a quick hug, she held me tight for second and then whispered, "give her a little time. Let her come to you. Has she been taking martial art classes?"

I barked a sharp laugh. "Not unless there's some new art form called Old Marine Fu."

We went over her punishment as I drove home, and I laid as much guilt on her as possible about how I should have been in the office speaking to clients, and how her aunt was a founding partner and shouldn't have to be dealing with her niece beating up boys in the lunchroom.

After I made sure that she was inside her room and I had changed the Wi-Fi password, I went back to my car, drove down to the lake, and waited for the charter boats to come in. When I saw Pop ambling off of his boat onto the dock, I got out of the car and stood next to the parking spot.

The man was 70 years old, and he still looked like he could drag the boat in by himself if necessary. He had the same red cooler in his huge paw that he'd had for the last 20 years. Seeing me, he smiled, lifted the cooler and gave me a thumbs up. When he finally got within speaking distance, I cut off any of his lectures about the fish he had caught, and the customers he had helped before they got started.

"Have you been teaching Lucinda how to fight?"

"Well, hello to you too, and no, not really."

I watched as he got up to that ancient caddy of his and put his cooler of fish in the passenger side. "So, you're not going to tell me you were teaching my 11-year-old how to box?"

He was wearing a faded blue button down over his white tank top, some jeans and sneakers. He shut the door behind him before turning to face me while leaning against his car. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"What's going on is that I'm not an idiot. You decided to teach my 11-year-old how to beat people up, and now she's suspended from school for punching two boys."

"Yeah? Well, at the very least, you need to check your facts. She came to me when she was nine, not 11. And what did you want me to do? Not help her? She asked me to show her how to punch. She was keeping her thumb wrapped up in her fist. You know how quick that will get you a broken thumb? I love you, kiddo. I have since the first day I saw you with Gus. But I'm not too happy with your attitude.

Did you think about coming down here and asking me why? Or maybe what else did I teach her? Or who else was involved? I get it. You're a hotshot lawyer, and you and Liz were born to take people down, but that ain't me. I'm not opposing counsel, and I don't play by those rules. Trying to squeeze me like that... you'd be better off trying to get juice from a stone. It ain't gonna happen."

I took a deep breath and started again. "Pop, we all love you, but you're not her mother or her father. Teaching her how to fight, it's just out of bounds."

"I just got done telling you, I taught her how to throw a punch without breaking her thumb. I didn't show her a whole hell of a lot."

"Come on, I'm not an idiot. The principal spoke to us. He'd seen the video of what she did. She punched the first boy, pivoted like an expert, and struck the second boy, all without missing a beat. He thought she was being trained for martial arts. You're going to sit there and tell me that you just showed her how to hold her fingers while she punches?"

"That's not what I said, but yeah, close enough. Shannon, I've heard the stories. How your dad was when he was getting divorced from your mom. What did he do almost every freaking day?"

"What does my father have to do with this?"

"Answer the question Shannon, what did Ethan do every day? What does he still do when he wants to get some exercise in?"

It suddenly dawned on me and I realized what he was talking about. My face reddened and my mind flashed back to when I was 11 and we'd hear that repeated thumping coming from the basement. Mom had expensive memberships to all of the best gyms in Pueblo. Dad couldn't afford that. He could afford a heavy bag. Day in and day out, he was in the basement working out his anger and aggression.

I looked down at his feet. "It wasn't you?"

"Not most of it, no. It wasn't me.

"I... I'm sorry. I made assumptions. I jumped the gun. I shouldn't have. I just, Pop, she punched two boys. Instead of using her mind or her words. She's just so, I don't know. Strong-willed. Where does that even come from?"

He laughed as he rolled his eyes. "Oh, I have no idea. Where on earth would that come from? On one side of her family, she comes from three generations of Marines. On the other side of her family, her Great Aunt Liz was the scariest lawyer in the state and could make grown men cry, and her niece, you, became her mini-me. Where, oh where, could Lucinda have gotten to be so strong-willed? What a total mystery."

I smiled in spite of myself. "Okay. Message received. No need to rub it in, old man. I guess I need to talk to Dad."

"Yeah. Guess so. Do me a favor? Take the cooler with you? Your dad'll grill up the fish, and your brothers eat like locusts."

I laughed again. "Deal, if you put it in my trunk. I don't want my car smelling like fish."

The drive to Dad's house gave me too much time to think. Pop's cooler of fish sat in my trunk, and I could smell it even with all the windows down. I'd rehearsed what I was going to say at least six times, but every version sounded wrong in my head. How do you tell your father that he overstepped? How do you explain that teaching your granddaughter to fight without consulting her parents was out of bounds?

The thing was, I didn't want to argue with Dad. I never had. Even during the worst of the divorce, when I was eleven and documenting Mom's affairs, I'd never been angry at him. He was the steady one, the one who made everything okay. Confronting him felt like betraying something fundamental about who we were to each other.

His house looked the same as always. The white two-story with the wraparound porch, the workshop attached to the side where he built his instruments. But now there was a second structure on the property, a craftsman-style bungalow that Alicia had designed for my half-brothers. Even from the driveway, I could see their handiwork everywhere. The landscaping around both houses was magazine-perfect, with native Colorado plants arranged in artistic clusters and stone pathways that seemed to flow naturally through the space.

I grabbed the cooler and headed toward the main house, but movement from the bungalow caught my eye. Through the large windows, I could see Nathan and Jake hunched over what looked like architectural plans spread across their dining table. At nineteen and twenty-one, they'd inherited Dad's steady work ethic and Alicia's eye for design. Their landscaping business was taking off faster than anyone had expected, but I knew they were stretched thin trying to balance college classes with their growing client list.

"Shannon!" Alicia's voice called from the front porch. She was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, her graying blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Perfect timing. I just pulled a casserole out of the oven."

"Hey, Alicia. Pop sent fish." I hefted the cooler. "He said the boys eat like locusts."

She laughed, the sound warm and genuine. After two decades of marriage to Dad, she'd learned to navigate our family's quirks with grace. "He's not wrong. Come on in. Ethan's in the workshop, but he'll be up in a minute."

The kitchen smelled like home, like garlic and herbs and whatever magic Alicia worked with simple ingredients. She'd never tried to replace my memories of the house from before, but she'd made it better, warmer somehow. Family photos covered the refrigerator, pictures of all of us at various ages, including several of Lucinda and her siblings that made my chest tight.

"How's our little fighter doing?" Alicia asked, opening the cooler to examine Pop's catch.

I winced. "News travels fast."

"Small town. Plus, Jake heard it from a friend whose little brother was there when it happened. He said Lucinda dropped those boys like a professional."

"That's what I'm worried about."

Alicia looked up from the fish, her expression growing serious. "You think someone taught her?"

"I know someone did. I just need to figure out how to talk to Dad about overstepping boundaries."

She nodded slowly, then started transferring the fish to the sink. "You want some advice?"

"Please."

"Your father loves that little girl to pieces. Whatever he did, he thought he was helping."

"I know. That's what makes this so hard."

I found myself fidgeting with my car keys, the metal cold against my palm. The longer I stood there, the more my carefully planned confrontation seemed to dissolve.

"He's in the workshop," Alicia said gently. "Go talk to him."

The path to Dad's workshop was familiar enough that I could walk it blindfolded. Sawdust and wood shavings crunched under my feet as I approached the open door. Inside, I could hear the careful scraping of a plane against wood, the rhythmic sound that had been the soundtrack of my childhood.

Dad looked up when my shadow fell across his workbench. He was working on what looked like a violin body, the wood pale and smooth under his hands. His hair was more gray than brown now, and there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there when I was Lucinda's age, but his smile was exactly the same.

"There's my girl," he said, setting down his tools. "Heard you had an interesting day."

"That's one way to put it." I leaned against the doorframe, suddenly feeling like a teenager again. The words I'd practiced on the drive over seemed to evaporate. "Dad, about Lucinda..."

"She okay?"

"She's suspended for a week. For fighting." I took a breath, trying to find my courage. "Dad, Pop told me you've been teaching her how to punch."

He picked up a piece of sandpaper and started working on a rough spot on the violin. "Among other things."

"Among other things?" My voice came out higher than I'd intended. "Dad, she's eleven years old."

"Yes, she is."

I waited for him to say more, but he just kept sanding. The silence stretched between us, and I felt my carefully constructed argument crumbling. This was the problem with confronting Dad. He never got defensive, never raised his voice, never gave me anything to push against.

"You should have talked to Gus and me first," I said finally.

"Should I have?" He examined the violin in the light, then set it aside. "When you were little and wanted to learn piano, did I ask your mother's permission before I started teaching you?"

"That's different. That's music."

"Is it?"

"Dad, she punched two boys at school. The principal said she moved like she'd been trained."

"Good. Better that than her getting hurt because she didn't know what she was doing."

I stared at him, frustrated by his calm acceptance. "You don't think there's anything wrong with an eleven-year-old girl beating up boys?"

"I think there's something wrong with an eleven-year-old girl not being able to defend herself if she needs to." He started organizing his tools, not looking at me. "Shannon, that little girl comes over here sometimes after school. She sits right there on that stool and asks me questions while I work. Some of those questions... they tell me she's dealing with things that words aren't going to fix."

"What kind of things?"

"The kind of things that make a little girl ask her grandfather to teach her how to fight."

The answer was frustratingly vague, and I felt my lawyer instincts kicking in. "Dad, that's not really an answer."

"It's the only answer I'm going to give you." He looked at me then, his expression gentle but firm. "That's between me and Lucinda. But I will tell you this, she didn't ask me to teach her how to hurt people. She asked me to teach her how to protect people."

I wanted to push harder, to demand specifics, but the look in his eyes stopped me. This was Dad in full protective grandfather mode, and I knew from experience that trying to force information out of him would be like trying to squeeze water from a stone.

"You still should have told us," I said, but the fight had gone out of my voice.

"Maybe. But sometimes kids need someone who isn't their parents. Someone who can teach them things without all the worry and fear that comes with being a mom or dad."

"She has us. She has Gus."

"She does. And she's lucky to have you both. But she also has me, and Pop, and Liz, and a whole family of people who love her." He came around the workbench and pulled me into a hug. "We're all on the same team here, sweetheart."

I let myself sink into the hug, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and Old Spice that always meant safety to me. But the frustration remained, sitting heavy in my chest. I was a successful attorney, someone who could argue cases in front of judges and intimidate opposing counsel, but I couldn't even have a proper confrontation with my own father.

"I should get home," I said, stepping back. "Gus doesn't even know about the fight yet."

"Tell him I said hello. And Shannon? Don't be too hard on Lucinda. She's got a good heart."

"I know she does. That's not the problem."

The drive home felt longer than the drive out. I'd accomplished nothing except confirming that yes, Dad had taught Lucinda to fight, and no, he wasn't sorry about it. The conversation replayed in my head, and each time I thought of another argument I could have made, another way I could have approached it. Why was it so easy for me to stand up to everyone, but impossible to have a real argument with my father?

***

The house was quieter when I walked in, but I could hear the muffled sound of drums coming from upstairs. Lucinda likely had her headphones on, which meant she was in full retreat mode, shutting out the world while she pounded out her frustrations on her kit.

"How did it go?" Gus asked, looking up from where he was helping James with his math homework at the kitchen table. Baby Rosie was in her high chair, systematically dropping Cheerios on the floor for our dog to clean up.

"About as well as you'd expect." I sat down across from him, suddenly exhausted. "Thoughts on dinner?"

"Why don't we bring something in?" Gus closed James' math book gently. "James, go play in the living room for a minute, okay? Mama and I need to talk."

Once James had wandered off to the living room, Gus turned his full attention to me. "So what happened at school?"

I told him everything. The principal's call, the meeting with Dr. Peterson, Lucinda's suspension, the ride home in angry silence. I watched his face throughout, seeing the concern deepen in his eyes.

"She punched two boys?" he asked quietly.

"Apparently like a pro. Dr. Peterson thought she was taking martial arts classes."

"And she's not talking about why?"

"She said they deserved it. That's all I could get out of her." I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache building. "Gus, I think she's been taking lessons from Dad and Pop on how to fight."

His eyebrows rose. "Both of them?"

"Pop admitted to teaching her how to punch without breaking her thumb. Dad was vaguer, but he didn't deny it."

"And you're upset about this."

It wasn't a question, and I could hear the careful neutrality in his voice. Gus always got very precise with his words when he was trying not to take sides.

"Yes, I'm upset. She's eleven, Gus. Eleven-year-old girls shouldn't be learning about combat from their grandfather and great-grandfather."

"Even if they asked to learn?"

"Especially if they asked to learn. That should have been a red flag that something was wrong, not an invitation to start training her."

Gus was quiet for a moment, processing. "Did either of them say why she wanted to learn?"

"Dad said she asked him to teach her how to protect people. Pop said she came to him when she was nine because she was holding her thumb wrong when she punched." I shook my head. "Nine years old, Gus. She's been thinking about fighting since she was nine."

"That's..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "That's concerning."

"You think?"

The drumming upstairs got louder, more aggressive. I could feel the vibrations through the ceiling, and I knew that Lucinda was working through something big up there. Part of me wanted to march upstairs and demand answers, but another part of me remembered being her age and needing space to process my anger.

"Should we go talk to her?" Gus asked, apparently thinking along the same lines.

"Not yet. She needs to cool down first. And honestly, I need to cool down too."

The drumming upstairs gradually slowed, then stopped altogether. In the sudden quiet, I could hear the soft murmur of the television from the living room where James was watching cartoons, and Rosie's contented babbling as she played with the remaining Cheerios in her high chair.

Gus and I looked at each other across the kitchen table. A dozen years of marriage had taught us to communicate in glances, and right now his expression was asking the same question mine was: were we ready for this conversation?

"We should present a unified front," I said quietly.

"Agreed. What's our position?"

"She accepts responsibility, she explains what happened, and she understands that violence isn't the answer." I paused, then added, "And we figure out why she's been asking Pop and Dad to teach her how to fight."

Gus nodded. "And her punishment?"

"A week suspension means a week at the law office with me in the mornings, home doing schoolwork in the afternoons. No drums except for one hour after dinner. No friends over."

"That seems fair."

We climbed the stairs together, our footsteps creaking on the old wooden steps. Lucinda's door was closed, but I could see light underneath it. I knocked twice.

"Lucinda? Dad and I need to talk to you."

"Come in."

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her math textbook open in front of her, looking for all the world like she'd been studying the entire time. But her drumsticks were still lying across her snare drum, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead that told me she'd been working out her frustrations just minutes before.

"How are you feeling?" Gus asked, settling into the chair at her desk while I remained standing near the door.

"Fine." Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact.

"Do you want to tell us what happened at school today?" I asked.

"I punched two boys during lunch." She said it like she was reporting the weather. No shame, no remorse, just a simple statement of fact.

"And?" I prompted.

"And they deserved it."

"Lucinda," Gus said gently, "can you tell us why they deserved it? What did they do?"

For the first time, her composure flickered. She looked down at her textbook, then back up at us, and I could see her internal struggle playing out across her features.

"They were being jerks."

"What kind of jerks?" I pressed. "Were they bothering you? Did they say something mean?"

"They were just... they were saying stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Just stupid stuff. It doesn't matter."

Gus leaned forward slightly. "Lucinda, if it made you angry enough to hit them, it matters. We need to understand what happened."

She shook her head stubbornly. "It's not important now. I handled it."

"You handled it by hitting them," I said, feeling my frustration rise again. "That's not handling it, that's making it worse."

"No, it's not. They stopped, didn't they?"

The matter-of-fact way she said it made my stomach drop. This wasn't a scared little girl who had lashed out in panic. This was someone who had made a calculated decision and was satisfied with the results.

"Lucinda, listen to me," I said, moving closer to her bed. "Violence is never the answer. I don't care what they said to you. You should have come to a teacher, or told us, or used your words to defend yourself."

Her jaw tightened. "Used my words." She repeated it like it was something distasteful. "Right. Because I'm so good with words, like you and Aunt Liz."

"You are good with words. You're smart and articulate and--"

"No, I'm not." Her voice was flat. "I'm not like you. I'm not like Aunt Liz. I can't talk my way out of everything or win every argument. Some people aren't made for fighting with words."

The bitterness in her voice caught me off guard. "Honey, where is this coming from?"

"Nowhere. It's just true." She closed her textbook with a sharp snap. "Are you going to tell me my punishment now?"

Gus and I exchanged another look. This conversation wasn't going the way either of us had expected. Instead of a defensive child making excuses, we had someone who seemed almost proud of what she'd done.

"You're suspended from school for a week," I said. "You'll spend mornings with me at the law office, and afternoons here doing your schoolwork. No drumming except for one hour after dinner, and no friends over until the suspension is finished."

"Fine."

"And," Gus added, "we're going to keep talking about this. You're going to explain to us what those boys said that made you so angry."

"No, I'm not."

"Lucinda--"

"I'm not telling you what they said, and you can't make me." Her chin jutted out in a way that reminded me painfully of myself at her age. "Give me whatever punishment you want. I'm not talking about it."

I felt my carefully maintained parental composure beginning to crack. "This attitude is not helping your case, young lady. If you keep this up, we'll extend your punishment for another week."

"Okay."

The single word, delivered with such calm acceptance, deflated my anger entirely. I had nothing to push against, no argument to win. She was willing to accept any consequence rather than tell us what had happened.

"We're disappointed in you," I said finally. "Not just because you hit those boys, but because you won't trust us enough to tell us why."

For the first time since we'd entered her room, I saw real emotion flicker across her face. But it wasn't shame or regret. It was something that looked almost like pity.

"I know you're disappointed," she said quietly. "But I'm not sorry I hit them. And I'd do it again."

LUCINDA

Mom and Dad finally left my room after telling me about my punishment, which honestly wasn't that bad. A week off school and I only had to go to Mom's office in the mornings? That was basically like a vacation. The no-friends-over rule didn't matter much since I didn't have that many friends anyway, and they were letting me keep my drumming time, so whatever.

The next morning, Mom dragged me to her office, which was exactly as boring as I thought it would be. She stuck me in this little conference room with a stack of worksheets the school had sent home, and every hour or so one of the secretaries would come check on me and bring me water or snacks.

By lunchtime, I was ready to climb the walls. Mom had some big meeting with partners that was supposed to last all afternoon, so she sent me home with strict instructions to "work on your assignments."

That's when I got my idea.

She'd said to work on my assignments. She hadn't specifically said I had to work on them at home. And I was really stuck on this stupid math homework about ratios and proportions. Who better to help me with math than Grandpa Steve? He was a mechanical engineer, which meant he was basically a math genius. Plus, I could wrap the whole thing up in the excuse that I was just following Mom's orders to work on schoolwork.

It was perfect.

I grabbed my bike from the garage and pedaled to Grandpa Steve's house. The whole way there, I practiced what I'd say if anyone asked why I wasn't at home. "I needed help with my math homework, so I went to see Grandpa Steve. Mom said to work on my assignments." Totally reasonable.

Grandpa Steve's house was this little blue ranch with a workshop in the garage where he was always tinkering with something. I could hear the sound of power tools as I dropped my bike in the driveway, which meant he was home and working on one of his projects.

"Hello?" I called out as I walked into the garage.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Iron Mike herself."

I groaned. "Please don't call me that."

Grandpa Steve looked up from whatever he was building and grinned at me. He had the same gray eyes as Dad, but where Dad was tall and lean, Grandpa Steve was stocky and built like a truck. He'd lost his left arm in Afghanistan when Dad was little, but he could still do more with one hand than most people could do with two.

"What, you don't like your new nickname? I think it suits you. Heard you dropped a couple of kids at school yesterday."

"They deserved it," I said automatically.

"I'm sure they did. Your dad called and told me what happened. Said you were suspended for a week."

"Yeah. Mom's making me go to her office in the mornings."

"That sounds like torture." He put down his tools and wiped his hand on a rag. "What brings you by? And please tell me you didn't sneak out of the house to come here."

"I didn't sneak. Mom said to work on my schoolwork, and I need help with math." I pulled my backpack off and dug out the worksheet. "It's this stupid ratio stuff. I don't get it."

"Ah, ratios. Those are actually pretty useful once you understand them. Come on, let's go inside and take a look."

We settled at his kitchen table, and he looked over my worksheet while I fidgeted with my pencil. The math problems were about scaling recipes and measuring ingredients, which seemed pointless to me. When was I ever going to need to figure out how much flour to use if I wanted to make half a batch of cookies?

"Okay, this one's easy," Grandpa Steve said, pointing to the first problem. "If a recipe calls for two cups of flour and you want to make half the recipe, how much flour do you need?"

"One cup?"

"Right. See? You already understand ratios. You just don't realize it."

We worked through a few more problems, and I had to admit he was right. Once he explained it, the math wasn't that hard. But the whole time, I kept thinking about other stuff. About how Mom had looked at me yesterday like I was some kind of alien creature she didn't understand. About how she kept comparing me to her and Aunt Liz, like I was supposed to be some kind of mini-lawyer.

"Grandpa?" I said after we'd finished the worksheet.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something? About Dad and Pop and you?"

"Shoot."

I fidgeted with my pencil some more, trying to figure out how to ask what I wanted to know. "Is it true that all the men in your family become Marines? Like, is that something you're supposed to do?"

He leaned back in his chair and studied me. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Nowhere specific. It's just, Pop was a Marine, and Dad was a Marine, and Dad's always talking about the Marines like it's this family tradition or something."

"Hmm." Grandpa was quiet for a minute. "I guess it might look that way from the outside. But that's not really how it happened."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your dad decided he wanted to be a Marine when he was about four years old. Not because Pop or I told him he had to, but because he saw pictures of Pop in his dress blues and thought it was the coolest thing in the world."

"But didn't you want him to be a Marine too?"

"Honestly? I was terrified. I'd seen enough war to know what it could cost. I would have been perfectly happy if your dad had wanted to be a teacher or a musician or a park ranger or anything else that didn't involve people shooting at him."

"Really?"

"Really. The only thing I wanted was for him to find something he loved doing and was good at. If that had been professional bowling, I would have supported that too."

I thought about that for a minute. "So it wasn't like a family thing? Like you all had to be the same?"

"No, sweetheart. It was your dad's choice. And when he decided he was done being a Marine and wanted to be a music teacher instead, I supported that too."

"But Mom thinks I'm supposed to be like her and Aunt Liz. Like I'm supposed to want to be a lawyer and be good with words and all that stuff."

Grandpa Steve's expression got more serious. "And is that what you want?"

"No. I hate arguing with people. I hate having to come up with the perfect thing to say all the time. When Mom and Aunt Liz get going, they can make anyone believe anything. They're like... like word wizards or something. But I'm not like that."

"What are you like?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Different. I like music, but not the same way Dad does. I like drums better than trumpet. And when people are being jerks, I don't want to talk them to death. I just want them to stop."

"Like yesterday at school?"

"Yeah. Like yesterday." I looked down at my hands. "Mom keeps saying I should have used my words, but she doesn't understand. I'm not good with words. Not the way she is."

Grandpa Steve was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. "You know, being different from your mom doesn't make you wrong. And being good with your fists instead of your words doesn't make you bad."

"Tell that to Mom."

"Maybe I should. But more importantly, maybe you should tell her yourself."

"She won't listen. She's already decided I'm supposed to be like her."

"Have you tried telling her you don't want to be?"

"Kind of. But every time I try, she just talks about how smart I am and how I could be a great lawyer someday. She doesn't hear what I'm actually saying."

"Then you need to say it louder. Not with your fists," he added quickly, "but with your words. Even if you don't think you're good with them."

I made a face. "That's easy for you to say."

"No, it's not. You think it was easy for your dad to tell Pop and me that he was done being a Marine? You think that conversation was fun?"

I hadn't thought about that. "Was Pop mad?"

"Pop was worried. But he wasn't mad. And your mom won't be mad either, if you explain how you're feeling."

"What if she doesn't understand?"

"Then you keep explaining until she does. That's what families do."

We talked for a few more minutes about school and drumming and whether I thought I might want to learn how to use some of his woodworking tools. But the whole time, I was thinking about what he'd said. About how Dad had chosen to be a Marine, and then chosen to stop being one, and how Grandpa Steve had supported him either way.

Maybe I could choose too. Maybe I didn't have to be the third version of Mom and Aunt Liz. Maybe I could just be me.

By the time I got home, I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. I'd gotten my math homework done, I'd had a good talk with Grandpa, and I had a plan for talking to Mom about the lawyer thing.

That good feeling lasted right up until I walked in the front door and saw Mom standing in the hallway with her arms crossed and that look on her face that meant someone was in big trouble.

"Where have you been?" she asked, and her voice was scary quiet.

"At Grandpa Steve's. Getting help with my math homework." I held up the completed worksheet like it was evidence. "See? I did what you said and worked on my assignments."

"I told you not to leave the house."

"No, you told me to work on my schoolwork. But I needed help with the math, so I went to Grandpa Steve. That's working on schoolwork."

Mom's eyes got really narrow. "Don't you dare try to lawyer your way out of this, Lucinda Beth."

"I'm not lawyering anything! I'm just explaining what happened. You said to work on assignments, so I did. You didn't say I couldn't get help."

"You weren't supposed to leave the house. That was pretty clear."

"But how was I supposed to get help with math if I couldn't leave the house? James is only seven, Dad's at work, and you were in your meeting. Grandpa Steve is the only person I know who's actually good at math."

"You could have waited until tonight and asked Dad to help you."

"But you wanted me to work on it this afternoon. So I did."

I could see Mom getting madder and madder, which didn't make sense to me. I'd done exactly what she'd asked me to do. I'd worked on my schoolwork. I'd gotten help when I needed it. I'd been responsible and made sure my homework got done properly.

"Lucinda, you deliberately disobeyed me. You knew I meant for you to stay home."

"I didn't disobey you. I followed your instructions. You said work on schoolwork, so I did. If you meant something else, you should have been more specific."

"That's it." Mom's voice was getting louder now. "You're grounded for another week. Two weeks total. And no more visits to anyone without explicit permission."

"That's not fair! I did what you said!"

"You did exactly what you wanted to do and then tried to twist my words to make it sound okay. That's manipulation, and I won't tolerate it."

"I'm not manipulating anything! I'm just explaining--"

"You're arguing with me. Again. Just like yesterday at school, you think you can talk your way out of consequences."

"I'm not talking my way out of anything! I'm trying to tell you what happened!"

"What happened is that you left the house when you weren't supposed to, and now you're standing here acting like it's my fault for not being clear enough. That stops now."

I stared at her, feeling that familiar frustrated anger building up in my chest. The same feeling I'd had yesterday when those boys were making fun of Dad, the same feeling I got whenever Mom looked at me like I was supposed to be someone I wasn't.

"Fine," I said. "Ground me for a month if you want. I don't care."

"Don't tempt me."

We stood there glaring at each other for a minute, and I could feel all the good feelings from my talk with Grandpa Steve draining away. He'd said I should explain to Mom how I felt, that she'd listen if I just found the right words. But standing here looking at her angry face, I realized he was wrong.

Mom didn't want to hear what I had to say. She just wanted me to be quiet and obedient and sorry. She wanted me to be the kind of daughter who would never punch anyone, who would solve all her problems with clever words and perfect arguments.

But that wasn't who I was, and I was tired of pretending it could be.

"I'm going to my room," I said.

"Good. And you're staying there until dinner."

I stomped up the stairs, slammed my door, and threw myself on my bed. Through the window, I could see Grandpa Steve's workshop in the distance, and I wished I was still there, talking to someone who actually understood that different didn't mean wrong.

Tomorrow I'd have to go back to Mom's boring office and sit in that conference room pretending to care about her stupid legal world. And the day after that, and the day after that, until my suspension was over and I could go back to school where everyone would want to know why I'd punched those boys.

And I'd never tell them, just like I'd never tell Mom and Dad. Because some things were more important than avoiding punishment, and protecting the people you loved was one of them.

Even if they didn't understand why you did it.

I woke up the next morning with my stomach in knots, dreading another day at Mom's law office. But before I could even finish my cereal, I heard the familiar sound of a bike being dropped in our driveway, followed by the front door opening without a knock.

"Hello, Kirschbaum family!" came a voice from the hallway.

I grinned despite myself. Only one person announced himself like that.

"We're in the kitchen, Alan!" I called back.

Alan appeared in the doorway, his dark hair sticking up at weird angles like he'd just rolled out of bed. Even though he was technically my uncle, being Dad's half-brother, he was only ten years old, a whole year younger than me. When we were little, I'd insisted on being called Aunt Lou because the whole uncle-niece thing was backwards and stupid. He still called me that, and it always made me smile.

"Hey, Aunt Lou," he said, sliding into the chair next to mine. "How's the knuckles?"

"Don't start," I warned, but I wasn't really mad. Alan was probably the only person in the world who could tease me about the fight without making me want to punch something.

Mom looked up from packing my lunch for another thrilling day at the law office. "Alan, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be getting ready for school?"

"Dad's dropping me off late today. He had to run some errands first." Alan grabbed a piece of toast from the plate on the table. "I thought I'd come see if James wanted to walk to school together."

"I'm not going to school," James said importantly. "I'm staying home with Rosa and the nanny."

"Lucky," Alan said. Then he looked at me. "But you're still grounded, right?"

"Extended grounding," I muttered. "Two weeks now."

"Ouch. What'd you do to get it extended?"

Before I could answer, Mom jumped in. "She left the house yesterday when she was specifically told not to."

"I went to Grandpa Steve's to get help with math homework," I said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Which is schoolwork. Which you told me to do."

"Lucinda," Mom said in that warning tone.

Alan looked back and forth between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Well," he said diplomatically, "maybe I could hang out here for a while? You know, to see James and Rosie. Not Lucinda. I'm definitely not here to see Lucinda."

Mom's expression softened slightly. "I suppose that would be okay. But I need to take Lucinda to the office in an hour."

"Actually," I said quickly, "since Alan's here to see James and Rosie, I don't think it counts as having a friend over. Right? I mean, he's not here for me."

Mom looked skeptical, but Alan nodded eagerly. "Exactly. I'm here for the little kids. Lucinda just happens to live here."

"Fine," Mom said. "But you two better not get into any trouble."

After Mom left for the office without me, apparently Alan's visit had given her an excuse to dump me on the nanny for the morning, we settled in the living room. James was building something complicated with his Legos, Rosie was in her bouncy seat making happy gurgling noises, and Alan and I were sprawled on the floor with my schoolwork spread out between us.

"So," Alan said, lowering his voice, "want to tell me what really happened at school?"

I glanced toward the kitchen where I could hear the nanny, Mrs. Martinez, cleaning up from breakfast. "It's not important."

"Come on, Aunt Lou. You punched two kids. That's not like you."

"How do you know what's like me?"

"Because I've known you my whole life, and you've never hit anyone before. Well, except that time you gave me a black eye when we were six, but that was an accident."

I smiled at the memory. We'd been playing some elaborate game involving pirates and had both gone for the same toy sword at the same time. "That was totally an accident."

"I know. So what made you hit these guys on purpose?"

I picked up my pencil and started doodling in the margins of my math worksheet. Alan was the one person I told everything to, but this felt different. This felt bigger and more complicated than our usual problems.

"They were just being jerks," I said finally.

"What kind of jerks?"

"The stupid kind."

Alan sighed dramatically. "You're being more stubborn than usual, which is saying something. What did they do?"

I was about to give him another non-answer when he casually mentioned, "Oh, by the way, I know who it was. Tyler Morrison and Jake Hendricks, right?"

My head snapped up. "How do you know that?"

"Because everyone's talking about it. And because Tyler Morrison is in my art class and he showed up yesterday with a split lip and a black eye."

"Good," I said, then immediately felt guilty for being glad someone was hurt.

"Yeah, he looked pretty rough. Jake too, apparently, though I didn't see him." Alan was quiet for a minute, absently helping James find a specific Lego piece. "You know what's weird though?"

"What?"

"Nobody seems to know why you hit them. Like, everyone's got theories, but Tyler and Jake won't say what happened. They just keep saying it was nothing."

My stomach twisted. If the boys weren't bragging about what they'd said, maybe that was a good sign. Maybe they were embarrassed about being beaten up by a girl, or maybe they realized they'd been jerks and didn't want to admit it.

"That is weird," I said carefully.

"Yeah. But here's the thing, Lou." Alan's voice got serious, and he stopped pretending to help James with his Legos. "I heard what they were saying."

My blood turned to ice. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I was in the bathroom during lunch, and they were in there washing Jake's bloody nose, and they were talking about it." Alan's face was flushed now, and his hands had curled into fists. "They were talking about Gus."

"Alan, no." I dropped my pencil and grabbed his arm. "No, no, no."

"They were making fun of the way he talks. And the way he walks, which is dumb. He walks normal, right?. They were imitating him, Lucinda. They called him a robot."

"Alan, please. Just forget about it."

"Forget about it?" His voice got louder, and James looked over at us with curiosity. Alan lowered his voice again, but I could hear the anger underneath. "They were making fun of my brother."

"It doesn't matter now. I handled it."

"No, you didn't handle it. You got suspended and now you're grounded for two weeks. Meanwhile, they're walking around school like nothing happened."

"They're not walking around like nothing happened. You said Tyler has a black eye and a split lip."

"That's not enough."

"Alan, you're ten years old. They're sixth graders. They're bigger than you."

"I don't care."

"I care! You'll get hurt!"

"So? You got suspended for defending Dad. If I get suspended too, at least we'll both be standing up for him."

I stared at my uncle, this skinny ten-year-old with his stubborn chin jutting out exactly like Dad's did when he was determined about something. Alan had the same gray eyes as Dad and Grandpa Steve, and right now they were burning with the same protective fury I'd felt when I heard those boys mocking our family.

"You can't fight them," I said desperately. "You're too little."

"I'm bigger than you were when you started learning to fight."

"That's different. Pop and Grandpa Ethan taught me properly. You don't know how to punch someone without hurting yourself."

"Then teach me."

"No!"

"Why not? You learned. Gus learned when he was a kid. It's a family thing, right?"

I felt trapped. Everything Alan was saying made sense, and I couldn't argue with his logic without sounding like a hypocrite. He had just as much right to defend Dad as I did. Maybe more, since they were actually brothers instead of father and daughter.

But the thought of Alan getting hurt because of something I'd started made me feel sick.

"Look," I said, trying a different approach. "If you go after them, it'll just make things worse for me."

"How?"

"Because then Mom and Dad will know why I hit them. Right now, they think I just lost my temper over something stupid. If you go after Tyler and Jake too, they'll figure out it was about Dad, and then..."

I trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. And then what? And then Dad would know that kids at school were making fun of him? And then Mom would get that look on her face, the one she got when she was trying to fix something that couldn't be fixed?

"And then what?" Alan pressed.

"And then everything will be different. Dad will know that people are talking about him, and he'll probably feel bad about it, and Mom will probably want to march into school and yell at everyone, and it'll just be a big mess."

Alan was quiet for a long moment, watching James carefully place a red block on top of his tower. "You really think Gus doesn't already know?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you really think he doesn't know that some people think he's weird? He's not stupid, Lucinda. He's been dealing with this stuff his whole life."

I hadn't thought about that. I'd been so focused on protecting Dad from finding out about the boys' comments that I hadn't considered the possibility that he already knew people sometimes made fun of him.

"But if he knows," I said slowly, "then why hasn't he said anything?"

"Because he's protecting us. The same way you're trying to protect him."

That hit me like a punch to the stomach. Was Alan right? Had Dad been quietly dealing with people making fun of him for years, never saying anything because he didn't want us to worry?

"Alan," I said quietly, "please don't go after them. Please. I'm begging you."

He looked at me for a long time, and I could see him thinking it through. Finally, he sighed. "Okay. I won't fight them."

Relief flooded through me. "Thank you."

"But," he added, "if they say anything else about Gus, all bets are off."

"They won't. I think I scared them pretty good."

"You better have. Because next time, I won't ask your permission."

We sat in silence for a while, both of us lost in our own thoughts. James had finished his tower and was now making elaborate crashing noises as he knocked it down, while Rosie dozed in her bouncy seat.

"Alan?" I said eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Do you really think Dad knows that people make fun of him?"

"I think he knows a lot more than any of us give him credit for," Alan said. "And I think he loves us enough to deal with it quietly so we don't have to."

I thought about that for the rest of the morning, even after Alan left for school and Mrs. Martinez drove me to Mom's office for another exciting day of worksheet completion. The idea that Dad might have been protecting us the same way I was trying to protect him made me feel proud and sad and angry all at the same time.

But mostly, it made me more determined than ever to never tell anyone the real reason I'd punched those boys. If Dad was strong enough to handle people making fun of him without fighting back, then I could be strong enough to handle my punishment without explaining why I'd done what I did.

The law office was nothing like I expected it to be. I thought it would be boring and stuffy, with everyone walking around in suits and whispering about important lawyer stuff. Instead, it was kind of busy and loud, with people rushing around with stacks of papers and talking on phones. Mom made me sit at a little desk in the corner of her office with my schoolwork spread out in front of me, but I kept getting distracted by all the noise outside her door.

The worst part was how everyone kept coming by to check on me. It started with the receptionist, who brought me a granola bar and asked if I needed anything. Then one of the other lawyers stopped by and talked to me like I was five years old, using this super high voice and asking about my "little school projects." I wanted to tell her that I was in sixth grade, not preschool, but Mom had already given me the lecture about being polite and representing the family well.

After lunch, this paralegal named Janet came in with a bag of M&Ms and sat down next to my desk like we were best friends.

"So, Lucinda, what's your favorite subject in school?" she asked, tilting her head to the side like a curious dog.

"Math," I said, not looking up from my worksheet.

"Oh, how fun! Do you like addition and subtraction?"

I looked at her then, trying to figure out if she was joking. "We're doing algebra."

Her face got all red and she laughed too loud. "Of course you are! You're Shannon's daughter, after all. I bet you're going to be a lawyer just like your mom and Aunt Liz when you grow up."

I just shrugged and went back to my work. Everyone kept saying that, like it was already decided for me. Like I didn't get to choose what I wanted to do with my own life.

By three o'clock, I'd had five different people bring me snacks, three people ask me about school, and two people tell me how much I looked like Mom when she was my age. I was starting to understand why some of them were being so nice. They thought if they were sweet to me, Mom would like them better. It made me feel weird, like I was some kind of test they were all trying to pass.

I was in the middle of a really hard math problem when someone knocked on Mom's office door. She was in a meeting down the hall, so I called out, "Come in."

An old man stepped inside, and I knew right away who he was. Judge Sallister looked exactly like what I thought a judge should look like, except he was wearing cowboy boots instead of regular dress shoes. He was really tall and had these crazy sideburns that made him look like he should be in an old western movie.

"Well, hello there," he said, closing the door behind him. "You must be Lucinda. I'm Judge Sallister, but you can call me Tom if you want."

"Hi," I said, putting down my pencil. "Mom's in a meeting."

"I know. I actually came to see you." He pulled up one of the chairs from across Mom's desk and sat down next to me. "How are you holding up? I heard you've had a rough week."

I wasn't sure how much he knew about what happened at school, so I just said, "It's okay."

He nodded like that was a perfectly good answer. "What are you working on there?"

"Algebra. It's pretty easy, but this one problem is being stupid."

He laughed, and it was a nice laugh, not like the fake ones I'd been hearing all day. "Mind if I take a look?"

I turned my worksheet around so he could see it. He studied it for a minute, then pointed to one part. "You've got the right idea here, but I think you might have switched a sign back in this step. See?"

He was right. I erased the mistake and worked through it again, and this time it came out right. "Thanks."

"No problem. You know, I used to work with your grandmother Maryanne on fundraising projects for the town when your mom was about your age."

That surprised me. "You knew Grandma Maryanne back then?"

"Oh yes. She was quite the force of nature, even then. Your mom was always tagging along to our meetings, asking questions and taking notes. Very serious little girl."

I tried to picture Mom as a kid, following adults around and being serious about everything. It wasn't hard to imagine.

"I also knew your Pop when he was a young man, still in the Marines," Judge Sallister continued. "And I knew your grandpa Steve when he was just a little boy, not much younger than you are now."

"Really?" I said, sitting up straighter. "What was Pop like when he was young?"

Judge Sallister's eyes got this faraway look. "Oh, he was something. Tough as nails, but with this big heart. He'd come back from overseas on leave, and he was trying to figure out what to do with himself. Your grandpa Steve was probably about six years old then, and he idolized his father. Used to follow him around everywhere."

"Pop being young is weird to think about," I said. "He's always just been Pop to me."

"I know what you mean. When you're a kid, it's hard to imagine the adults in your life were ever any different than they are now." He leaned back in his chair. "You know, when I was starting out as a lawyer, I was scared to death most of the time."

"You were?"

"Absolutely terrified. You see, my mother-in-law was this famous, groundbreaking lawyer down in Texas. She was brilliant and tough and everyone knew who she was. When I married her daughter and decided to become a lawyer myself, I felt like I had this huge shadow hanging over me. No matter what I did, people would compare me to her."

I thought about that. "Is that why you moved here?"

"Partly, yes. My wife and I came to Pueblo to get out from underneath that shadow, to build something that was ours. And you know what? I'm still not sure if I ever really managed to escape it completely."

He was quiet for a minute, and I could tell he was thinking about something important.

"The thing is, Lucinda," he said finally, "it took me a long time to realize that trying to be someone else, even someone you admire, is a waste of your energy. The world doesn't need another version of my mother-in-law, just like it doesn't need another version of your mom or your Aunt Liz."

"But everyone expects me to be like them," I said before I could stop myself.

"Do they? Or do you just think they do?"

I thought about all the people today who had assumed I wanted to be a lawyer. "I guess both."

"Well, let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about your answer." He leaned forward and looked right at me. "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

Nobody had ever asked me that before. Not really. Adults always just assumed I'd go into law like Mom and Aunt Liz, or maybe they'd ask what I wanted to be when I grew up but then immediately start talking about how smart I was and how I'd make a great lawyer. Judge Sallister was the first person to ask the question and then just wait for my answer.

"I want to be a studio musician," I said, the words coming out before I really thought about them.

His eyebrows went up, but he didn't look surprised or disappointed. "What kind of music?"

"All kinds, I guess. I play drums, but I'm learning guitar too, and Dad taught me some piano. Studio musicians get to play on lots of different albums and work with different artists. It's like... you get to be part of making something beautiful without having to be the star, you know?"

"That sounds wonderful. What else?"

"What else what?"

"What else interests you? What else might you want to do?"

I thought about it. "Well, my uncles have this landscaping business, and sometimes I help them on weekends. Not with the heavy stuff, but I help them figure out which plants would look good together and where to put them. I'm pretty good at seeing how things should look."

"Business and design," he said, nodding. "That's a great combination."

"And..." I got more excited as I kept talking. "Maybe I could help other people with their businesses too. Like, figure out how to make them better or help them solve problems. Sort of like what my grandmother did, but different."

"You mean Maryanne?"

"Yeah. She always knows how to make things work, how to get people to do what needs to be done. But I don't want to do it the same way she did. I want to do it my way."

Judge Sallister smiled, and it was the first time all day that an adult had looked at me like I'd said something actually interesting instead of just cute.

"Lucinda, that sounds like you've got some real vision there. Business consulting, music, design... those are all valuable skills, and they could all work together in ways you might not even realize yet."

"Really?"

"Really. And you know what the best part is? None of that requires you to be anyone other than exactly who you are."

I felt something loosen up in my chest, something that had been tight for longer than I could remember. "But what if I'm not smart enough? What if I can't do any of those things as well as other people can?"

"Smart enough according to who? You just solved that algebra problem, you're thinking creatively about business and design, and you're passionate about music. That sounds pretty smart to me." He paused. "But more importantly, being smart isn't just about being good at the same things other people are good at. Maybe you're smart in ways that are completely your own."

"Mom and Aunt Liz are really good with words. They can argue about anything and win."

"And that's their gift. But that doesn't mean it has to be yours. The world needs people who can solve problems in different ways, who can see things from different angles." He gestured toward my math worksheet. "You approached that problem methodically and didn't give up when it got tricky. That's a kind of intelligence too."

I thought about that. I'd never really considered that there might be different ways to be smart.

"Can I tell you something?" Judge Sallister said. "When your grandmother Maryanne and I used to work together on those fundraisers, she was brilliant at organizing people and getting things done. But you know what? Some of the best ideas came from the kids who were hanging around the meetings. They'd see solutions that none of us adults could see because they weren't thinking about all the reasons why something wouldn't work."

"Like what?"

"Well, one time we were trying to raise money for new playground equipment at the elementary school. All the adults were focused on big, formal fundraisers with tickets and fancy food. Your mom, who was probably about your age, suggested we just set up a lemonade stand and a car wash in the school parking lot on Saturday morning. Simple, cheap to organize, and it brought the whole community together. We raised more money that day than we had in three months of planning fancy events."

"That does sound better than fancy stuff."

"It was. Because it came from someone who understood what actually mattered." He looked at me seriously. "Don't underestimate the value of seeing things differently, Lucinda. The world has plenty of people who think the same way. What it needs is more people who can offer a fresh perspective."

We sat there quietly for a minute. Outside Mom's office, I could hear phones ringing and people talking, but it felt peaceful in there with Judge Sallister. Like I could breathe properly for the first time all week.

"Thank you," I said finally.

"For what?"

"For asking what I wanted to do. And for listening to my answer."

"You don't need to thank me for that. But you're welcome." He stood up and pushed his chair back where it belonged. "And Lucinda? When people assume you're going to be a lawyer like your mom and aunt, you don't have to argue with them or feel bad about disappointing them. You can just smile and know that you've got your own plans."

"What if they keep pushing?"

"Then you can say, 'I'm still figuring it out,' and change the subject. You don't owe anyone a detailed explanation of your dreams until you're ready to share them."

Just then, Mom came back from her meeting. She looked surprised to see Judge Sallister there.

"Tom! I didn't know you were here. Were you waiting for me?"

"Actually, I was having a lovely conversation with your daughter. She's quite remarkable, Shannon."

Mom looked at me like she was trying to figure out what we'd been talking about. "I hope she wasn't bothering you."

"Not at all. In fact, I think she might have some good ideas for the business world someday. You should be very proud."

"I am," Mom said, but she still looked confused.

Judge Sallister winked at me. "I should let you both get back to work. Lucinda, it was a pleasure meeting you properly."

"You too," I said.

After he left, Mom sat down at her desk and looked at me. "What did you two talk about?"

"Just stuff," I said, going back to my math. "He helped me with a problem."

"That's nice of him."

I nodded and picked up my pencil, but I wasn't really focused on the worksheet anymore. I was thinking about studio musicians and landscaping and helping people with their businesses. I was thinking about being smart in my own way and not having to apologize for being different.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe being me was going to be enough.

SHANNON

The next day, I took an extended lunch to meet with my mother and stepfather at their house. As two of our most significant clients, someone from the firm had to check in with them every other month anyway regarding their extensive property holdings and business interests. I'd volunteered for this particular meeting, partly because it was required business, and partly because I needed to talk to someone about Lucinda who might actually understand the complexity of the situation.

Mom's cook had prepared a beautiful lunch that we barely touched as we worked through the legal particulars of their various holdings. George was methodical and detail-oriented, asking pointed questions about liability issues with one of his commercial properties. My mother, as always, had opinions about everything and wasn't shy about expressing them. By the time we'd covered the business agenda, I was already feeling drained.

"Now then," Maryanne said, setting down her water glass with the kind of decisive gesture that meant we were moving on to more personal matters, "tell me what's really going on with you. You look like hell."

"Thanks, Mom. Always the diplomat."

"I'm serious, Shannon. You've got that pinched look around your eyes that you get when you're trying to solve a problem that won't be solved."

I sighed and pushed my salad around on my plate. "It's Lucinda. She got suspended from school for fighting."

"Fighting?" George looked genuinely surprised. "That doesn't sound like her."

"That's what I thought too. But apparently she punched two boys during lunch, and from what the principal told us, she knew exactly what she was doing. This wasn't some wild, emotional outburst. She was methodical about it."

Maryanne raised an eyebrow. "Did they deserve it?"

"That's not the point, Mom."

"Isn't it?"

I felt my lawyerly instincts kick in. "No, it's not. Violence is never the appropriate response to a verbal conflict. There are procedures, there are adults she could have gone to, there are words she could have used. She chose to hit them instead."

"And what did these boys say to her?"

"She won't tell us. That's part of what's so frustrating." I set down my fork, my appetite completely gone. "But there's something else that's bothering me even more than the fighting."

"What's that?"

"She keeps saying she's not like Liz and me. That we're the same, but she's different. She acts like being compared to us is some kind of insult."

My mother was quiet for a moment, studying my face in that way that had always made me uncomfortable. "And that upsets you because?"

"Because it's not true, for one thing. Lucinda is incredibly intelligent and logical. When she sets her mind on something, she's absolutely tenacious. She won't let go of an argument until she's proven her point. Those are exactly the qualities that make Liz and me good attorneys."

"Shannon." My mother's voice had taken on a warning tone that I remembered from childhood.

"What? I'm just saying that there are clear similarities, and maybe if she could see that, she could learn from us instead of fighting against everything we try to teach her."

"Stop." The word came out sharp and final. "Just stop right there."

I looked at her, startled by the sudden shift in her tone.

"You are doing exactly what I did to you when you were her age. Exactly." Maryanne's voice was rising, and I could see George shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I had you pigeonholed from the time you could walk. I decided what instruments you should play, how you should behave, where you should perform, what you should want out of life. I tried to force you into the mold I thought you should fit, and it nearly destroyed our relationship."

"Mom, that's completely different--"

"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're trying to turn Lucinda into a miniature version of yourself and your aunt."

"I'm trying to help her recognize her strengths."

"No, you're trying to make her into something she's not." My mother leaned forward, her eyes blazing with an intensity that reminded me why she'd been so successful in business. "It took me a very long time to learn and grow past my own arrogance, Shannon. A very long time. But I finally realized that Gus is the best thing that ever happened to you, precisely because he's nothing like what I thought you needed."

I felt heat rising in my cheeks. "What does Gus have to do with this?"

"Everything. You and Liz are born rhetoricians. You're loquacious, empathetic, you can sense what clients not only need to hear, but what they truly want. You're intellectually gifted people-persons." She paused, letting each word sink in. "That is absolutely, definitively, not Lucinda."

The certainty in her voice hit me like a slap. "Mom--"

"You know damn well that your two eldest children have been tested to see if they're on the spectrum, just like Gus. And you're planning to have Rosie tested when she gets a little older."

My throat tightened. We didn't talk about the testing. It was something Gus and I handled privately, carefully, without making it into a big family discussion.

"The specialist told you that Lucinda might be on the spectrum but extremely high functioning, didn't she?" Maryanne continued, her voice gentler now but no less firm. "If that's true, that means she literally does not think like someone who is neurotypical. She simply does not, and cannot, think and learn and interact the same way you and Liz do."

I wanted to argue, to find some logical flaw in what she was saying, but the words wouldn't come.

"And that is perfectly fine," my mother said, leaning back in her chair. "My granddaughter is perfect exactly the way she is. And if you disagree with that, Shannon, I'm ashamed of you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. In all the years since I was eleven years old and discovered my mother's infidelity, in all the fights and accusations and moral judgments that had passed between us, I had always been the one casting judgment. I had been the wronged party, the one with the moral high ground, the one who got to decide who was right and who was wrong.

This was the first time she had looked at me with disappointment and found me wanting.

I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "I should get back to the office."

"Shannon." George's voice was gentle. "Your mother isn't trying to hurt you. She's trying to help you see--"

"I know what she's trying to do." My voice sounded strange and tight, even to my own ears. "I need to go."

I made it through the goodbyes and out to my car before the full weight of what had just happened hit me. I started the engine and pulled out of their driveway, but I only made it about two miles down the road before I had to pull over.

Sitting in my car on the shoulder of the highway, I started crying harder than I had in years. Not just because of what my mother had said, though that was devastating enough. But because I could see the truth in every word she'd spoken, and I hated myself for not seeing it sooner.

I thought about Lucinda sitting in that principal's office, refusing to explain why she'd fought those boys. I thought about her rigid posture, her arms wrapped around herself like armor. I thought about the way she retreated to her drums when she was overwhelmed, pounding out rhythms that seemed to make sense to her in a way that words never could.

And I thought about Gus, who had taught me that love doesn't mean trying to fix someone or change them into what you think they should be. Love means accepting them exactly as they are and helping them become the best version of themselves.

I'd been trying to turn my daughter into a smaller version of myself, and I'd been too proud and too stubborn to see what I was doing to her.

I sat there on the side of the road, crying for my daughter and for my own blindness, until I was finally ready to drive home and try to figure out how to do better.

The confrontation with my mother left me feeling like I had been turned inside out and shaken until everything that I thought I knew about myself had fallen to the ground in broken pieces. I drove home in a daze, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the familiar streets of our neighborhood. The air conditioning in my car couldn't quite combat the lingering heat of the day, and I could smell the faint scent of charcoal from someone's early dinner BBQ mixing with the ever-present dusty sweetness that hung over Pueblo in late spring.

When I pulled into our driveway, the sight of our expanded home felt both comforting and overwhelming. The original McClarty house that Gus had inherited sat nestled within the larger structure we had built around it, like a small heart beating inside a larger body. The exterior walls were a warm sandstone color that caught the golden light beautifully, and the wraparound porch that we had added still smelled faintly of the cedar stain we had applied last summer. Purple petunias spilled from the planters that lined the steps, their sweet fragrance competing with the sharp scent of the Russian sage that had started to bloom in the side garden.

I sat in the car for a moment, listening to the engine tick as it cooled, watching the automatic sprinkler system send arcing streams of water across the front lawn. The droplets caught the light like tiny prisms, and I could hear the distant sound of children playing somewhere in the neighborhood, their voices carrying on the warm air along with the rhythmic thwick-thwick-thwick of someone hitting a tennis ball against a garage door.

When I finally went inside, the house felt different somehow, as if my mother's words had followed me home and were now settling into the corners like dust. The late afternoon sun streamed through the west-facing windows in the living room, illuminating the family photos scattered across the mantle and highlighting the fine coating of dust on the piano that none of us had touched in weeks. The air inside was cooler than outside but still carried the lingering scents of morning coffee and the lavender fabric softener I used on the laundry.

I found Gus in the kitchen, standing at the island and reviewing what looked like lesson plans while a pot of something that smelled like marinara sauce simmered on the stove. His hair was slightly mussed from running his hands through it, a habit he had when he was concentrating, and he wore the blue button-down shirt that I had bought him last Christmas because it made his eyes look almost gray in certain light. When he heard my footsteps, he looked up with that small smile he reserved just for me, but it faded quickly when he saw my face.

"Shannon? What happened?"

I wanted to tell him everything, but the words felt too heavy and complicated to lift. Instead, I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest and breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the chalk dust that never quite washed out of his clothes during the school year.

"I think I've been a terrible mother," I whispered into his shirt.

His arms came around me immediately, one hand stroking my hair with that careful precision he brought to everything he did. "No," he said simply. "You haven't."

But I pulled away and shook my head. "I have, Gus. I've been trying to turn Lucinda into someone she's not, and I didn't even realize I was doing it."

He studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him processing what I had said, filing it away and considering it from different angles the way he did with every piece of information that came his way. "What made you see that?"

So I told him about my conversation with my mother, about the way she had looked at me with disappointment for the first time in my adult life, about how every word she had spoken had felt like a physical blow because it had all been true. As I talked, the sun continued to sink lower in the sky, painting the kitchen walls in shades of amber and rose, and the scent of the simmering sauce grew richer and more complex.

When I finished, Gus was quiet for a long time. Then he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with the kind of gentle touch that always made my chest tighten with love for him.

"I've been waiting for you to see it," he said softly. "But I didn't know how to tell you without making you feel defensive."

"How long have you known?"

"Since she was little. Maybe three or four." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "She's like me, Shannon. The way she processes information, the way she gets overwhelmed in social situations, the way she needs routine and structure. You kept talking about her potential in debate and mock trial, and I could see how those environments would be torture for her."

The weight of my own blindness settled over me like a heavy blanket. "I thought I was helping her."

"You were trying to give her opportunities. There's nothing wrong with that impulse." He turned to stir the sauce, and I watched the way the steam rose from the pot, carrying with it the rich scents of tomatoes and garlic and oregano. "But maybe now we can find opportunities that fit who she actually is."

I nodded, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes again. "I need to apologize to her."

"She's upstairs," Gus said. "She's been practicing her drums since she got home from school."

Through the window above the sink, I could see our backyard stretching out in the golden light of late afternoon. The grass was the deep green of early summer, dotted with the white and yellow faces of dandelions that we never quite managed to eradicate completely. The old oak tree that had been on the McClarty property when Gus inherited it cast dappled shadows across the lawn, its leaves rustling in the warm breeze that carried the scent of honeysuckle from the neighbor's fence.

But I wasn't ready to talk to Lucinda yet. I needed to process what I was feeling first, needed to find a way to sort through the tangle of guilt and regret and love that was churning in my chest. So instead, I kissed Gus and told him I needed some time to think.

I went upstairs to our bedroom and pulled my violin case out of the closet where it had been gathering dust for months. My fingers fumbled with the latches, and when I lifted the lid, the familiar scent of rosin and old wood rose to greet me. The violin itself was a beautiful instrument, purchased by my grandmother, with a warm amber finish that glowed like honey in the afternoon light. I had barely thought of it since Lucinda's suspension, too caught up in work and worry and the daily demands of keeping a family running.

But now I needed it. I needed the familiar weight of it in my hands, needed the way the music could bypass all the complicated thoughts in my head and speak directly to whatever was broken inside me.

I took the case downstairs and out to the backyard, where the evening air was soft and warm against my skin. The sun was sinking lower now, painting the western sky in shades of coral and gold that reflected off the windows of the houses around us. I could hear the distant sound of Lucinda's drums from inside the house, a steady rhythm that seemed to match the beating of my heart.

I sat on the steps of our back porch, the warm wood smooth beneath me, and lifted the violin to my shoulder. For a moment, I just held it there, feeling the familiar curve of the neck against my palm, the slight pressure of the chin rest against my jaw. Then I drew the bow across the strings, and the first note rose into the evening air like a prayer.

I didn't play anything specific at first, just let my fingers find their way across the fingerboard while my bow wandered through melodies that seemed to emerge from somewhere deep inside my chest. The music floated out over the backyard, mixing with the sound of the wind in the oak leaves and the distant hum of traffic on the main road. I played songs that my grandmother had loved, folk melodies that spoke of longing and loss and the complicated love between mothers and daughters.

I again became the fiddler instead of the recital violinist. My fingers and heart played for Lucinda, for my grandmother and Great Aunt Beth, and my Aunt Jessy who had been an amazing player but who had died before I was born,

As I played, the sun continued its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in deeper shades of orange and pink. The air grew softer and more fragrant, heavy with the scent of the jasmine that climbed the back fence and the earthy smell of the garden beds that we had watered earlier in the day. I could hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and the sound of a lawn mower starting up in another yard, but these sounds felt far away and unimportant compared to the music flowing from my violin.

I thought about Lucinda as I played, about the way she had looked in the principal's office with her arms wrapped around herself like armor, about the fierce determination in her eyes when she had refused to apologize. I thought about all the times I had pushed her toward activities that made her uncomfortable, all the ways I had tried to shape her into the image of what I thought she should be instead of celebrating who she actually was.

The guilt was overwhelming, but underneath it was something else, something that felt almost like relief. Because now I could see her clearly for the first time, could see the beautiful, complicated, neurodivergent child that she actually was instead of the projected image I had been trying to impose on her. And with that clarity came a fierce protective love that made my chest ache.

I was so lost in the music and my thoughts that I didn't hear the back door open. I only became aware that I wasn't alone when I felt familiar hands on my shoulders, warm and steady and infinitely comforting. I let the bow drift away from the strings as Gus settled himself behind me on the steps, his legs on either side of mine, his chest solid and warm against my back.

"Don't stop," he murmured into my hair. "That was beautiful."

But I couldn't continue. The emotion that had been building inside me all day finally broke free, and I found myself crying in earnest for the first time since I was a teenager. The emotion eclipsed what I'd felt in the car. Gus didn't say anything, just wrapped his arms around me and held me while I sobbed, my tears falling onto the violin in my lap and my whole body shaking with the force of my grief and regret.

"I love her so much," I whispered when I could finally speak again. "I love her exactly the way she is, and I've been such a terrible mother."

"You're not a terrible mother," Gus said firmly, his voice vibrating through his chest and into my back. "You're a mother who loves her daughter and wants the best for her. That's never terrible, even when you make mistakes."

I leaned back against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing and the way his heart beat against my shoulder blade. The sky was darkening now, the first stars beginning to appear in the deepening blue, and the air was cooling enough that I could feel goosebumps rising on my arms. But I was warm in Gus's embrace, surrounded by the familiar scents of his cologne and the fabric softener on his shirt and the lingering traces of the sauce he had been cooking.

"I want to do better," I said softly. "I want to see her. Really see her."

"You will," he said, and there was such certainty in his voice that I almost believed him. "We both will."

We sat there until the automatic porch light flickered on, bathing us in its warm yellow glow and attracting the first moths of the evening. Then I carefully put my violin away and we went inside, where the house smelled of dinner and family and the possibility of new beginnings.

The next morning dawned clear and bright, with the kind of crystalline air that made everything look sharp and newly washed. I woke before my alarm, pulled from sleep by a restlessness that had been building since my conversation with my mother. The house was still quiet, with only the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of a garbage truck making its rounds through the neighborhood.

I slipped out of bed without waking Gus and pulled on jeans and a light sweater, moving quietly through the morning routine that had become automatic over the years. The coffee maker gurgled to life in the kitchen, filling the air with the rich scent of dark roast, and I stood at the window watching the sun climb higher over the rooftops while I waited for it to finish brewing.

But I didn't want coffee. I didn't want breakfast or the newspaper or any of the normal rhythms of a Tuesday morning. What I wanted was to talk to the two women who had shaped me more than anyone else in my life, the two women who would have known exactly what to say to help me navigate this crisis of motherhood and self-doubt.

So I left a note for Gus and drove across town to Riverside Cemetery, where my paternal grandmother and great-aunt Beth were buried side by side in a plot that overlooked the Arkansas River. The cemetery was peaceful in the early morning light, with dew still clinging to the grass and the air filled with the sound of birds calling to each other from the cottonwood trees that lined the riverbank.

I parked near the old section and walked slowly along the familiar paths, breathing in the scent of wet earth and growing things. The headstones here were a mix of old and new, some so weathered that the names were barely visible, others still sharp and clean with fresh flowers placed carefully at their bases. I had always found cemeteries to be peaceful places, full of stories and memories and the quiet dignity of lives well-lived.

Grandma's headstone was simple gray granite with her name and dates and the phrase "Beloved Mother and Grandmother" carved in elegant script. Aunt Beth's was similar, though it also included a small musical note engraved near the bottom, a nod to her love of singing and her role in nurturing my own musical gifts. Someone, probably my father, had placed fresh carnations in the vase between their graves, and the pink and white blooms looked bright and hopeful in the morning light.

I sat cross-legged on the grass between their graves, not caring that the dew was soaking through my jeans, and looked out over the river where the water moved in slow, hypnotic currents toward the east. A blue heron stood motionless in the shallows, waiting for fish with the infinite patience that only wild things seem to possess, and I watched it while I tried to find the words for what I needed to say.

"I think I've made a terrible mess of things," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper in the morning quiet. "Lucinda is in trouble at school, and it's my fault because I've been trying to turn her into someone she's not. I've been doing exactly what Mom did to me, and I didn't even realize it."

A gentle breeze rustled through the cottonwood leaves, creating a sound like distant applause, and I imagined it was my grandmother's way of encouraging me to continue.

"She's beautiful and strong and so much braver than I ever was, but she's different from me in ways that I should have recognized years ago. She thinks like Gus, processes the world like Gus, and I've been pushing her toward things that would be torture for someone with her neurology." I plucked at the grass beside me, watching the blades spring back into place when I released them. "I feel like such a failure as a mother."

The heron moved then, stepping carefully through the shallow water with its neck extended and its yellow eyes focused intently on something beneath the surface. I watched as it struck like lightning, coming up with a small fish that flashed silver in the sunlight before disappearing down the bird's throat.

"I wish you were here to tell me what to do," I continued, addressing both graves now. "I wish I could hear your voices telling me that I can fix this, that it's not too late to do better."

But of course there was no answer except the sound of the river and the wind and the distant hum of traffic from the highway. So I sat there in the peace of the morning, surrounded by the memory of their love and the certainty that they would have wrapped me in their arms and told me that loving my daughter was enough, that recognizing my mistakes was the first step toward healing them.

When I finally stood to leave, my legs stiff from sitting on the damp ground, I felt something that might have been peace settling in my chest. The day was warming up, and I could smell the green scent of the river and the sweet fragrance of the wild roses that grew along the cemetery's border fence. I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to each headstone, whispering promises to do better, to see clearer, to love more wisely.

Then I drove to my father's house, knowing that of all the people in my life, he was the one most likely to understand the complicated knot of love and regret that was strangling my heart.

Dad's house sat on a quiet street, a modest ranch-style home with a front porch swing and flower beds that he tended with the same careful attention he brought to his woodworking. The morning sun was slanting across the front yard, illuminating the purple irises that had just finished blooming and the rose bushes that were heavy with buds that would open in the next few weeks.

I could hear voices coming from the backyard as I approached the front door, and I recognized the laughter of my brothers mixed with my father's deeper chuckle. Instead of knocking, I followed the sound around to the back of the house, where I found all three of them sitting around the picnic table with coffee mugs and what looked like architectural plans spread out in front of them.

"Shannon!" My youngest brother Jake looked up with a grin, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger than his years. "What brings you by so early?"

"Yeah," added Marcus, was much younger than me but still insisted on treating me like his baby sister. "Shouldn't you be terrorizing clients or something?"

I loved my brothers with a fierce, protective love that had only grown stronger as we had gotten older, but our relationship had always been built on humor and gentle teasing rather than deep emotional conversations. They were good men, both of them, with successful landscaping businesses and the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly who they were and what they were good at. But I had never turned to them for advice about the complicated realities of marriage and motherhood.

Today, though, I found myself wanting to push past our usual surface-level interactions. I needed their perspective on Lucinda, needed to understand how they saw her when they weren't filtered through my own anxieties and expectations.

"Actually," I said, settling myself at the picnic table and accepting the mug of coffee that Dad poured for me, "I wanted to talk to you guys about Lucinda."

Both of my brothers straightened up with interest, and I could see the immediate concern that flashed across their faces. For all their joking and teasing, they adored their nieces and nephew with the uncomplicated devotion that seemed to come naturally to uncles.

"Is she okay?" Marcus asked, his voice suddenly serious.

"She's..." I paused, trying to figure out how to explain without going into all the complicated details. "She's been having some trouble at school, and I'm starting to realize that maybe I don't know her as well as I thought I did."

Jake and Marcus exchanged a look that I couldn't quite read, and then Jake leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

"What do you want to know?" he asked simply.

So I asked them to tell me about Lucinda from their perspective, to share the insights and observations that they had gathered from their hours of working with her in their landscaping business and their casual interactions at family gatherings. What they told me over the next hour was a revelation that left me feeling both proud and ashamed.

They talked about how Lucinda had approached them last summer, asking if she could work with them during her school break. Not because she wanted spending money or because she was bored, but because she was genuinely fascinated by the process of transforming outdoor spaces. They described how she would study the Pinterest boards and magazine clippings that their clients showed them, how she had an intuitive understanding of color and texture and the way different plants would grow and change over time.

"She's got this amazing eye for design," Marcus said, his voice full of pride. "Last month, Mrs. Henderson wanted us to redo her whole backyard, and she couldn't figure out what she wanted. Lucinda looked at the space for maybe ten minutes and then sketched out this incredible plan that incorporated the existing trees and created these amazing sight lines."

"And she wants to learn about construction," Jake added. "She's been bugging us to take her over to Grandpa Steve's shop so she can learn about outdoor kitchens and lighting and all the technical stuff that goes into the hardscaping."

I listened to them talk about my daughter with a growing sense of wonder and regret. They described a young woman who was creative and thoughtful and passionate about beauty in ways that I had never noticed. They talked about her questions about sustainable landscaping and native plants, about her interest in creating outdoor spaces that would attract birds and butterflies, about her dreams of someday starting her own design business that would specialize in environmentally conscious gardens.

All of it while she was so young!

"She's not like you and Liz," Marcus said gently, as if he could read the complicated emotions on my face. "She doesn't want to argue cases in front of judges or negotiate deals in boardrooms. But that doesn't mean she's not brilliant in her own way."

"She sees things differently," Jake agreed. "Like, she'll notice details that the rest of us miss completely. And when she gets excited about something, like a plant or a design concept, she lights up in this amazing way."

As they talked, Dad sat quietly, occasionally nodding or adding a small detail, but mostly just listening with the kind of patient attention that had always made him such a good father. When my brothers finally wound down, he reached across the table and covered my hand with his own.

"They're right, you know," he said softly. "She's extraordinary. Just not in the ways you expected."

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes again, but this time they felt different. Less like grief and more like a complicated mixture of love and possibility and the humbling recognition of how much I still had to learn about my own daughter.

"I've been trying to force her into the wrong mold," I admitted.

"Maybe," Dad said. "But it's not too late to try a different approach."

We talked for another hour, sitting in the warming sun while the shadows shifted across the yard and the scent of the neighbor's grilling began to drift over the fence. My brothers told me more stories about Lucinda's summer work with them, about her careful attention to detail and her surprising physical strength and her ability to work steadily for hours without complaining. Dad shared his own observations about the way she approached problems, methodically and patiently, always thinking several steps ahead.

By the time I left to go home, I felt like I was carrying a new understanding of my daughter, a clearer picture of who she actually was beneath all my projections and expectations. But I also felt the weight of another concern that I couldn't ignore, no matter how much I wanted to celebrate her unique gifts and perspectives.

Dad's basement workshop smelled like sawdust and wood stain and the faint metallic scent of the tools that hung in neat rows on the pegboard walls. But it was the heavy bag hanging in the corner that caught my attention as I was saying goodbye, the leather punching bag that looked well-used and somehow ominous in the dim light filtering through the basement windows. There was a stairway access to the workshop from the backyard, and I stared as I sipped the last of my coffee.

The sight of the heavy bag brought back all my worry about Lucinda's physical response to the boys at school. No matter how much I wanted to focus on her artistic talents and her environmental consciousness, I couldn't forget that she had used her fists to solve a problem, and that scared me in ways I wasn't sure I could articulate.

So as I drove home through streets that were now busy with the normal rhythms of a Tuesday afternoon, I made a promise to myself that I would find a way to address both sides of my daughter. I would celebrate her unique gifts and support her dreams of landscape design and outdoor artistry. But I would also figure out how to channel her instincts in ways that wouldn't get her suspended from school or worse.

When I pulled into our driveway, the house looked the same as it had that morning, but I felt like I was seeing it with new eyes. The carefully planned flower beds and the thoughtful placement of the outdoor furniture suddenly seemed like evidence of Lucinda's influence, small touches that I had attributed to Gus or assumed had happened naturally.

I went inside and found Gus in the living room, grading papers while some kind of nature documentary played quietly on the television. The afternoon light was streaming through the windows, highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air and casting interesting shadows across the walls. He looked up when I came in, and the smile that spread across his face was warm and welcoming and full of the kind of love that made my chest tight with gratitude.

"Leave the office early? It's good to be the queen. How was your day?" he asked, setting aside his red pen and giving me his full attention.

So I told him about the cemetery and my conversation with Dad and my brothers, about the new understanding of Lucinda that was taking shape in my mind. As I talked, I moved around the room, straightening things that didn't need straightening and touching the familiar objects that made this house our home. The family photos on the mantle, the books scattered across the coffee table, the throw pillows that Lucinda had insisted on buying last year because they were the exact color of spring grass.

"She wants to be a landscape designer," I said finally, sinking down onto the couch next to him. "She wants to create beautiful outdoor spaces and learn about sustainable gardening and work with her hands to build something lasting."

Gus nodded, not looking surprised by this revelation. "That makes sense. She's always been happiest when she's outside, and she notices details about plants and layouts that most people miss."

"Why didn't I see it?" I asked, more to myself than to him.

"Because you were looking for yourself," he said gently. "You were looking for the parts of her that reminded you of your own talents and interests, instead of seeing the parts that were uniquely hers."

I leaned back against the couch cushions, feeling the familiar comfort of our shared space and the peaceful quiet of our afternoon routine. Through the window, I could see the backyard where I had played my violin the night before, where the oak tree was casting longer shadows as the sun moved toward the western horizon.

"I need to apologize to her," I said. "I need to tell her that I see her now, really see her, and that I'm sorry for trying to make her into someone she's not."

"She'll forgive you," Gus said with quiet certainty. "She loves you, Shannon. Even when you're making mistakes, she loves you."

I knew he was right, but the knowledge didn't make the apology any easier to contemplate. How do you explain to your daughter that you've been blind to her essential nature? How do you ask forgiveness for loving her wrong?

But I also knew that I had to try. So I kissed Gus and went to check on each of my children, stopping in their rooms to tell them I loved them and to really look at them, to see them as individuals rather than as extensions of my own hopes and fears.

Then I went to the kitchen and began the process of recreating the cinnamon raisin cookies that Great-Aunt Beth had made for me when I was a child. I didn't have her recipe, but I had my memories of the way they had tasted, warm and sweet and full of the kind of unconditional love that I wanted to give to my own family.

As I worked, measuring flour and cinnamon and watching the butter soften in the warm afternoon light that streamed through the kitchen windows, I thought about the different ways that love could be expressed. Sometimes it was through music or words or grand gestures. But sometimes it was through the simple act of baking cookies for your family, of creating something sweet and nourishing that would fill the house with the scent of home and caring.

The kitchen filled with the warm smell of cinnamon and vanilla as the first batch went into the oven, and I stood at the counter, rolling out the remaining dough and thinking about new beginnings and second chances. Outside, I could hear the sound of children playing and the distant hum of traffic and all the normal sounds of a neighborhood settling into the rhythm of late afternoon.

It felt like a perfect moment to start over, to try again, to love better.

LUCINDA

The third morning of my extended grounding started the same way as the others, with Mom dragging me to her law office like I was some kind of criminal who couldn't be trusted alone. I sat in that stupid conference room with my worksheets spread out on the polished table, listening to the lawyers next door arguing about some contract dispute. At least today I had something to look forward to. Alicia was supposed to come over this afternoon.

I'd been calling her Alicia since I was little, even though she was technically my step-grandmother. She'd married Grandpa Ethan way before I was born, so I didn't remember a time when she wasn't part of our family. She wasn't like Grandma Maryanne or Aunt Liz. She never fussed about keeping my clothes clean or sitting still. Instead, she'd taught me how to arrange flowers and showed me why certain colors looked good together. When I was seven, she'd let me help design the landscaping around her and Grandpa Ethan's house, and I'd felt so proud when people complimented how beautiful it looked.

So when Grandpa Steve had suggested I talk to someone about the design side of landscaping, Alicia was the obvious choice. She owned Pike Interior Design, and her work was all over Pueblo - fancy restaurants, office buildings, even some of the houses in the hills where the rich people lived. More importantly, she understood that when I got interested in something, I was serious about it.

When Mom picked me up from the office for lunch, she seemed less angry than she had been all week. "Alicia called me," she said as we drove home. "She's bringing lunch for both of you. She said you sounded very determined on the phone."

I nodded, but inside I was thinking about how Alicia had never once told me I was too young to understand something. When I was eight and obsessed with why some rooms felt cozy and others felt cold, she'd spent an entire afternoon explaining light and proportion to me. When I was nine and wanted to know why the plants in some gardens looked happy and others looked sad, she'd taught me about soil and drainage and which plants liked to be neighbors.

Maybe that's why I'd felt brave enough to call her about the landscaping business idea. I knew she wouldn't just pat me on the head and tell me to focus on being a kid.

Alicia showed up right on time with her usual efficiency, carrying a bag from Rosario's and a folder tucked under her arm. She was dressed in her work clothes - dark jeans, a button-down shirt, and boots that could handle getting dirty on job sites. Her graying blonde hair was pulled back, and she wore the silver jewelry she'd made herself during what she called her "artsy phase" in college.

"There's my favorite design consultant," she said, giving me a hug that smelled like her perfume and the faint scent of sawdust from Grandpa Ethan's workshop. "I brought green chile enchiladas. I figured if we're going to talk business, we should eat properly."

We spread the food out on the kitchen table, and I tried to gather my thoughts. Alicia had a way of making everything feel official and important, even when we were just talking.

"So," she said, pulling out her folder, "you want to know about running a design business."

"I want to know if what I'm good at with plants and outdoor spaces is like what you do with indoor spaces," I said. "And if it is, I want to know how I can get better at it."

Alicia smiled, and I could see her shifting into what my uncle called her "professional mode." She pulled out a small notebook and a pen. "Tell me what you mean when you say you're good with plants and outdoor spaces."

So I told her everything. About helping my uncles with their landscaping jobs, about how I could usually tell when something was going to look wrong before they planted it, about the way I liked to think about how people would use a space. I told her about Mrs. Henderson, who wanted a meditation garden, and how I'd suggested creating different levels so she could choose where to sit depending on whether she wanted sun or shade.

"That's excellent spatial thinking," Alicia said, making notes. "Interior design requires the same skills, just applied differently. You have to think about how people move through a space, what they need from each area, how colors and textures work together."

"But it's different because you can't change the weather or the seasons," I said.

"Exactly! Outdoor spaces have to work in all kinds of conditions. That's actually harder in some ways." She paused to take a bite of her enchilada. "Lucinda, can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest with me."

I nodded.

"Why are you thinking about this now? Most kids your age are focused on school and friends and figuring out what they want to do this weekend, not what they want to do with their careers."

I'd been dreading this question, but with Alicia, I felt like I could be completely honest. "Because I want to be good at something that's mine. Mom and Aunt Liz are lawyers, and everyone expects me to be like them. But I'm not good with words the way they are. I'm good with seeing how things should fit together, and I'm good with plants and building things. I want to do something where being me is enough."

Alicia leaned back in her chair and studied me for a moment. "You know, when I first met your mom, she was about your age. She was so worried about living up to everyone's expectations, about being perfect all the time. It took her a long time to figure out that being Shannon was pretty wonderful all by itself."

"But everyone still expects me to be like her."

"Do they? Or do you just think they do?" She reached across the table and touched my hand. "Lucinda, some of the most successful people I know can't write a legal brief to save their lives. But they can walk into a space and immediately see what's wrong with it and how to fix it. That's a gift, and it's absolutely as valuable as any other skill."

I felt something loosen in my chest. "Really?"

"Really. Let me ask you this - when you help your uncles with landscaping, do you enjoy the business side of it? Talking to customers, figuring out budgets, managing schedules?"

I thought about it. "Yeah, actually. I like helping them explain to customers why certain plants won't work where they want them, or why they need better drainage before we can install a patio. And I'm good at math, so the measuring and calculating costs doesn't bother me."

"Those are crucial skills for running any design business. You need creativity, but you also need to be practical and organized." Alicia flipped to a new page in her notebook. "If you're serious about this, and I mean really serious, not just curious, there are things you can start doing now to prepare yourself."

"Like what?"

She started writing as she talked. "First, you need to understand business basics. How to talk to clients, how to manage projects, how to handle money. Second, you need to develop your design eye. Study spaces that work well and figure out why they work. Third, you need to understand the technical side; what materials work where, how construction actually happens, what things cost."

She tore the page out of her notebook and handed it to me. She'd written down a list of books about design and business, plus some websites and even a few TV shows that might help me understand the field better.

"There's also a summer program at the community college for high school students interested in architecture and design," she said. "You're too young for it now, but in a few years, that might be perfect for you. And Lucinda? I think you should come work with me sometimes. Not as an employee, you're too young for that, but as a shadow. I could use someone with your eye for color and proportion."

I stared at the list, feeling a familiar excitement building in my chest. The same feeling I'd gotten when I first sat behind a drum kit, or when I'd figured out the perfect spot for Mrs. Henderson's meditation garden. This was real information, actual steps I could take.

"Alicia," I said, "do you think I'm too young to know what I want to do?"

"I think you're young enough to explore lots of possibilities without pressure. But if you have a passion for something, age doesn't matter as much as dedication." She smiled. "I started my business when I was twenty-five, right after I finished my design degree. Everyone told me I should work for someone else first, get experience. But I knew what I wanted, and I was willing to work for it."

She packed up her folder and gathered the empty food containers. "I'm going to leave this list with you, and I want you to really think about it. If you're still interested in a month, call me. We'll start with you shadowing me on a couple of small jobs, see how you like the reality of dealing with clients and deadlines and all the not-fun parts of the business."

After Alicia left, I sat in my room looking at her list and thinking about what she'd said. Maybe Mom was right that I had years to figure things out. But maybe that just meant I had years to get really, really good at what I wanted to do.

I was reading one of the websites Alicia had recommended when I heard familiar voices downstairs. Alan was here again, supposedly to see James and Rosie. But when he appeared in my doorway twenty minutes later, I could tell he had something important to say.

"Lou," he said, closing my door behind him and sitting on the edge of my bed. "I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"One of the kids at school has a video."

I felt like I might throw up. "What kind of video?"

"Of the fight. Someone was recording during lunch, and they got the whole thing." Alan's face was flushed with anger. "Tyler Morrison's been bragging about how he's going to post it online. He says it's going to make you look stupid."

"Alan, listen to me very carefully," I said, grabbing his arm. "If that video shows what those boys were saying about Dad, I need to know. Can you find out? Can you watch it somehow?"

"Why does it matter what they were saying? Everyone already knows you beat them up."

"Because," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "if people see them making fun of Dad, it'll hurt him. And I can't let that happen."

Alan stared at me for a long moment, and I could see understanding dawn in his eyes. "That's why you won't tell anyone what happened. You're protecting Gus."

I nodded, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "He doesn't know they were saying stuff about him. He doesn't know that's why I hit them. And I never want him to know. Dad teaches at the performing arts school, not our regular school, so he doesn't deal with kids like Tyler and Jake every day. But if that video gets out..."

"Lou," Alan said softly, "what if the video doesn't have sound? What if you can't even tell what they were saying?"

"Then maybe it'll be okay. But if it does... Alan, I don't know what to do."

My uncle, this ten-year-old boy who somehow understood everything that mattered, reached over and hugged me. "We'll figure it out," he said. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out together."

For the first time since the fight, I felt like maybe I wasn't alone in trying to protect the people I loved. Maybe having someone else who understood was exactly what I needed. After all, Alan was dad's brother.

I wasn't ready to go downstairs yet. I could hear Mom playing violin in the backyard, and the sound made my chest feel tight in a way I couldn't explain. So instead, I sat on my bed with my laptop and did something I hadn't done in a while. I went to the folder where Dad kept all the old family videos and started watching the ones of Mom when she was my age.

The first video I clicked on was from one of her official recitals. Mom was standing on a real stage with professional lighting, wearing a fancy black dress with her hair pulled back perfectly. The sound quality was amazing, like they had hired people just to record her playing. She looked so serious and composed, her posture perfect as she played some complicated classical piece I didn't recognize. The audience was completely silent, and when she finished, they clapped politely like they were at church or something.

She was really good. Even I could tell that. Her fingers moved across the strings like they knew exactly where to go without her even thinking about it, and the music was beautiful and precise. But she looked so stiff, so uncomfortable. Like she was performing for people she was trying to impress instead of people she wanted to share something with.

I clicked on another recital video, then another. They were all the same. Mom in fancy dresses, playing complicated classical music on expensive stages, looking like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. The videos were professionally done, with multiple camera angles and perfect sound mixing. Everything was polished and perfect and somehow completely wrong.

Then I found the videos of the Poplin Family Jug Band.

The difference was like comparing a photograph to a real person. In these videos, Mom was playing a fiddle instead of a violin, and even though it looked like the same instrument, everything else was completely different. She was wearing jeans and boots and flannel shirts. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. And she was smiling. Actually smiling while she played, like the music was something joyful instead of something she had to get perfect.

The sound quality wasn't as good in these videos. They were obviously recorded by family members instead of professionals. But the music was alive in a way that the recital pieces never were. Mom would catch Grandpa Ethan's eye while they played together, and they would grin at each other like they were sharing some secret joke. The audience was clapping along and sometimes singing, and everyone looked like they were having the time of their lives.

In one video, I could see Alicia in the background, adjusting a banner behind the stage. There were bales of hay positioned around the edges of the performance area, and old-fashioned jugs lined up at the front of the stage, and posters on stands that said things like "Veterans Support Fund" and "Community Charity Night." Everything looked relaxed and comfortable and real.

But the best video was the last one I watched. It was from a charity gig for veterans, and Mom and Grandpa Ethan were playing "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Mom's fiddle was practically singing, her bow flying across the strings like it had a mind of its own. She was swaying with the music, her whole body moving with the rhythm, and when she got to the really fast parts, she was grinning like she couldn't help herself.

The audience was going crazy. People were clapping and stomping their feet and cheering, and Mom was feeding off their energy, playing harder and faster until the whole place felt like it might explode with excitement. When they finished, she threw her hand up in the air like she had just won something important, and the crowd erupted.

I watched that video three times in a row.

It was like seeing two completely different people. The recital Mom was trying so hard to be perfect, to meet someone else's expectations, to prove she was worthy of something. But the jug band Mom was just being herself, sharing something she loved with people who loved it too.

I thought about the fancy dresses versus the jeans and flannel. The silent, respectful audiences versus the cheering, clapping crowds. The polished stages versus the hay bales and jugs. The professional lighting versus the simple community center fluorescents.

It hit me then, really hit me, why I had been feeling so strange about everything lately. Grandma Maryanne had tried to force Mom to be someone she wasn't, just like Mom was trying to force me to be someone I wasn't. The fancy recitals were Grandma Maryanne's vision for what Mom should be. But the jug band was who Mom actually was when she got to choose for herself.

And now Mom was doing the same thing to me that Grandma Maryanne had done to her. She wanted me to be like her and Aunt Liz, wanted me to argue and negotiate and think like a lawyer. But that wasn't who I was. I was more like Dad, like the jug band version of Mom. I liked working with my hands and being outside and fixing things that were broken.

I closed the laptop and lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The violin music from the backyard had stopped, and the house felt too quiet. I could hear the refrigerator humming downstairs and a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood, but everything else was still.

Tomorrow Alan would be back from his trip, and maybe things would start making sense again. Alan always understood me in ways that other people didn't. He was like the little brother I had never asked for but was glad I had anyway.

The next day, I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on our front door. When I looked out my bedroom window, I could see Alan's bike leaning against our porch railing. Mom and Dad had both left for work already, so I went downstairs to let him in.

"Hey," Alan said, but his usual grin was missing. He had his backpack with him, and he looked more serious than I had ever seen him.

"You're back early," I said, stepping aside to let him in. "How was your trip?"

"It was fine, but Lu, we need to talk." He followed me into the kitchen and set his backpack on the table. "I was able to get a copy of the video from your fight."

My stomach dropped. "How did you get that?"

"I have my ways," he said, pulling his laptop out of his backpack. "But that's not important. What's important is that it has audio, and you can hear everything that happened before the fight started."

I felt like I was going to throw up. "Alan, I don't want to watch it."

"I know you don't, but you need to see it. And more importantly, Shannon needs to see it." He opened his laptop and started it up. "This changes everything, Lu. When people hear what those boys said to you, they'll understand why you did what you did."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "No, that's exactly what I don't want."

Alan looked at me with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want people to hear what they said. I don't want anyone to know."

"But Lu, if this video gets around, and it probably will, your mom is going to see it eventually. Isn't it better that she knows what's on it ahead of time instead of being surprised by it?"

I stared at him, feeling trapped. He was only ten years old, but sometimes Alan was smarter than kids twice his age. And he was right. If the video was going to spread around, Mom would see it sooner or later.

"Okay," I said finally. "But just Mom. We don't show it to Dad, all right?"

"If that's what you want," Alan said. "But why not Gus? I mean, he'd see it eventually, so why wait?"

I couldn't answer that question without explaining everything, so I just shook my head. "Promise me we won't show it to Dad."

"I promise."

Alan clicked play, and suddenly our kitchen was filled with the sounds of the school cafeteria. The video showed kids milling around during lunch, and then the camera focused on a group of boys near the windows. I could see myself approaching them, and my stomach clenched as I heard their voices.

"That's Mr. Kirschbaum's daughter," one of them was saying, way too loud so they knew I would hear. "The weird teacher who talks like a robot."

"Yeah, my sister says he's a total freak," another one said. "Walks all stiff and never looks at anyone when he talks. Probably has some kind of brain problem."

"Bet his daughter's just as weird as he is. Like father, like daughter, right?"

On the video, I could see myself stop walking and turn toward them. My hands were already clenched into fists.

"Shut up," I said in the video. "My father would beat the heck out of your fathers, and he's a Marine."

The boys laughed, but it wasn't a nice laugh. "Ooh, we're so scared of the robot teacher."

"Yeah, what's he gonna do, beep at us to death?"

They started moving closer to me, and I could see on the video how they were trying to be intimidating, how they were using their size to make me back down.

"If you're feeling froggy, maybe you should jump," I said.

Alan burst out laughing despite everything. "Man, you sound just like Pop."

In the video, I could see Alan in the background, running toward us with a look of pure rage on his face. But before he could get there, the boys stepped closer to me again, and I hit both of them exactly the way Pop had taught me. I set my weight right, pivoted correctly, generated power from my hips just like he always said. By the time Alan reached me, one boy was on the floor and the other was stumbling backward holding his nose.

When the video ended, the kitchen was completely silent.

Alan was the first one to speak. "You see what happened there, right?" he said. "Those boys were being aggressive. They were moving into your space, trying to intimidate you. Even though I'm just a kid, I can tell that you weren't the only one who was wrong here."

I looked at him with surprise. Even though he was only ten, he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Like he was making some kind of legal argument.

Alan caught my expression and grinned a little sadly. "Maybe I should have been the one who they wanted to be a lawyer instead of you, Lu."

I felt tears starting to burn behind my eyes. "It doesn't matter," I said. "Don't you get it? If people see this video, they'll hear what those boys said about Dad. And that's exactly what I was trying to prevent."

"Lu, we have to tell Shannon," Alan said gently. "She needs to know what really happened. And if you don't want Gus to see it, that's okay. We can just show it to your mom and let her decide what to do next."

I thought about it for a long time, staring at the blank laptop screen. Alan was right that Mom was going to find out eventually. And maybe if I explained to her why I didn't want Dad to see it, she would understand. Maybe she would help me figure out how to protect him from knowing that kids at school made fun of him.

But I also knew that once Mom saw this video, everything would change. She would want to do something about it, want to fix it somehow. And I wasn't sure that was what I wanted.

"Okay," I said finally. "We'll show it to Mom. But Alan, I need to explain to her why I don't want Dad to see it. She needs to understand that I was trying to protect him."

"She will understand," Alan said. "Shannon loves Gus just as much as we do. She won't want him to get hurt either."

I hoped he was right. But as I thought about showing Mom that video, about explaining to her why I had been so desperate to keep it secret, I realized that protecting the people you love was a lot more complicated than I had thought it would be.

SHANNON

The morning light was filtering through our kitchen windows when Lucinda appeared in the doorway, still in her pajamas but with that determined expression I'd come to recognize as trouble brewing. Her dark hair was tousled from sleep, and she was fidgeting with the hem of her oversized t-shirt in that way she did when she was nervous about something.

"Mom," she said, her voice carefully controlled in the way that told me she'd been rehearsing this conversation. "I think you and I need to go visit Grandpa Steve and Alan today."

I looked up from where I was packing lunches for the day, automatically noting the slight tremor in her hands and the way she wasn't quite meeting my eyes. After eleven years of being her mother, I could read Lucinda's moods like a familiar song, and something about this request felt orchestrated rather than spontaneous.

"Any particular reason?" I asked, keeping my tone light. "It's a school day, honey. For Alan, anyway."

"I know, but..." she trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip. "I just think we should go. Please, Mom. It's important."

There was something in her voice that made me pause, something that reminded me of the way she'd sounded the day she'd gotten into the fight at school. That same careful control barely masking something deeper and more complicated underneath.

I glanced toward the living room where Gus was getting James and Rosie ready for their day, his patient voice guiding them through the morning routine with the same methodical precision he brought to everything. If Lucinda wanted to get me out of the house, away from Gus, that suggested whatever she wanted to talk about involved him somehow.

"Lucinda," I said gently, "if something's wrong, you can tell me here. Your dad and I don't keep secrets from each other."

Her face flushed slightly, and she looked down at her feet. "It's not... it's not a secret exactly. It's just... please, Mom. Can we just go? Alan really wants to see us, and Grandpa Steve said it would be okay."

The mention of Alan made me raise an eyebrow. At ten years old, Gus's young brother was still very much a child, but he'd been spending more time with Lucinda lately, and I'd noticed they seemed to share some kind of understanding that went beyond their one-year age difference. If Alan was involved in whatever this was, it definitely had something to do with family dynamics.

"All right," I said finally, making a decision based more on maternal instinct than logic. "Let me talk to your dad about watching James and Rosie."

The relief that flooded Lucinda's face was so immediate and obvious that I knew I'd made the right choice, even if I didn't understand what I was agreeing to yet.

Twenty minutes later, we were in the car heading toward Steve and Alan's house, Lucinda sitting quietly in the passenger seat and staring out the window at the familiar streets of Pueblo. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but it had weight to it, like the air before a storm.

"Lucinda," I said as we turned onto Steve's street, "whatever this is about, you know I love you, right? No matter what."

She turned to look at me then, and I saw something in her eyes that looked almost like gratitude mixed with fear. "I know, Mom. I love you too."

Steve's house sat on a quiet corner lot, a neat ranch-style home with a well-maintained yard and the kind of front porch that invited neighbors to stop and chat. I'd always loved this house. It felt like a place where people were accepted exactly as they were.

Alan met us at the front door before we could even knock, his stocky frame filling the doorway in a way that reminded me startlingly of Pop, his grandfather. At ten years old, he was already showing signs of the physical presence that would make him formidable as an adult, but his gray eyes held the same gentle intelligence that ran through all the Kirschbaum men.

"Hi, Aunt Shannon," he said, his voice carefully formal in the way that told me he was nervous too. "Hi, Lucinda. Grandpa Steve's in the living room."

I followed the children into the house, noting the way they exchanged glances that seemed to communicate something I wasn't privy to. Whatever this was about, they'd clearly planned it together.

Steve was sitting in his favorite armchair, a cup of coffee balanced on the side table and a book open in his lap. At fifty-four, he still carried himself with the straight-backed posture of the Marines, but his face had the kind of weathered kindness that came from years of raising children and grandchildren with patient understanding.

"Shannon," he said, rising to give me a hug that smelled like coffee and the woodsy aftershave he'd worn for as long as I'd known him. "Good to see you, honey. The kids said they had something they wanted to share with us."

The way he said it, with that slight emphasis on "us," told me he was as much in the dark about this as I was. But he settled back into his chair with the kind of calm acceptance that suggested he was prepared for whatever was coming.

Lucinda and Alan positioned themselves in front of us, and I could see them gathering their courage like performers about to take the stage. Finally, Lucinda pulled out her phone with hands that shook slightly.

"Mom," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "we have something we need to show you. It's... it's about the fight at school."

My heart sank. I'd thought we'd moved past the incident at school, that the suspension and our conversations afterward had put it behind us. But looking at my daughter's face, I realized there were layers to that story I hadn't understood.

"What about the fight, honey?"

"Somebody recorded it," Alan said. "And we think... we think you need to see it."

Lucinda held out her phone, and I could see a video queued up on the screen. But before she could hit play, she looked at me with eyes that were suddenly bright with unshed tears.

"Mom, I need you to know that I didn't want you to see this. I didn't want Dad to know about it at all. Because..." she took a shaky breath, "because the boys I hit, they were making fun of Dad. They were saying horrible things about him, and I couldn't... I just couldn't let them."

The world seemed to tilt slightly around me. All this time, I'd been assuming the fight was about typical middle school drama, some petty argument between children that had gotten out of hand. But if it was about Gus, if kids were making fun of my husband...

"Show me," I said quietly.

The video was clearly shot by another student, the phone held vertically in that way that made everything look cramped and distorted. But the audio was clear enough, and what I heard made my chest tighten with a mixture of rage and heartbreak.

Two boys, probably eighth graders based on their size, were doing an exaggerated imitation of someone they clearly thought was weird and funny. They were making their voices flat and monotone, speaking in the careful, precise way that Gus sometimes did when he was concentrating or stressed. They were mimicking his tendency to pause before speaking, to choose his words carefully, to sometimes miss social cues that seemed obvious to everyone else.

And then I heard Lucinda's voice, sharp and angry and protective in a way that made my heart clench.

"Stop it. Stop talking about my dad like that."

"Oh, what's wrong, Lucinda? Don't like hearing the truth about your weird dad?"

"He's not weird. He's just different."

"Yeah, different like crazy different. My mom says he shouldn't even be allowed to teach kids. She says he's probably got all kinds of mental problems."

It continued, while they moved closer to her, and then closer again. She said something that sounded exactly like what Pop would say about them jumping if they felt froggy, and once more, they stepped towards her.

And then I watched my eleven-year-old daughter, my careful, thoughtful, usually reserved daughter, launch herself at those boys with a fury I'd never seen from her before. But even in her anger, I could see she was controlled, measured. She hit them hard enough to make her point but stopped as soon as they backed away.

What struck me most, though, was the moment when Alan appeared at the edge of the frame, clearly running toward the altercation with his fists clenched and his face set in an expression of pure protective rage. He looked ready to tear those boys apart, despite being younger and smaller than both of them.

The video ended with Lucinda walking away, her shoulders set and her head high, while the two boys stood there looking shocked and more than a little afraid.

I handed the phone back to Lucinda with hands that weren't entirely steady. For a long moment, the living room was completely silent except for the ticking of Steve's old mantel clock.

"How long have you been carrying this around?" I asked finally.

"You mean, like knowing they made fun of Dad? Since it happened," Lucinda whispered. "I didn't want you to know. I didn't want Dad to know. I thought... I thought if you knew what they were saying about him, it would hurt him, and I couldn't stand that."

I looked at my daughter, really looked at her, and saw something I'd been missing for months. The careful way she monitored social situations, the way she sometimes seemed overwhelmed by group dynamics, the intense protectiveness she showed toward people she loved. The way she'd been struggling in the debate and mock trial activities I'd been pushing on her, not because she wasn't smart enough, but because they required a kind of social navigation that felt foreign to her.

And I thought about my mother's words from our conversation, about how I was trying to turn Lucinda into someone she wasn't. About how I was repeating the same mistakes my mother had made with me, trying to force my daughter into a mold that didn't fit.

"Lucinda," I said softly, "I need you to understand something. What those boys said about your dad was cruel and wrong, but Dad... Dad is stronger than you think he is. He's been dealing with people who don't understand him his whole life, and he's learned how to handle it."

"But they were being so mean," she said, and now the tears were flowing freely. "They were making fun of the way he talks, the way he thinks. They were acting like there was something wrong with him, and there's not. There's nothing wrong with Dad. He's the best person I know."

"You're absolutely right," I said, reaching out to pull her into my lap the way I had when she was smaller. "There's nothing wrong with your dad. He's different, yes, but different isn't bad. Different is just different."

I felt her relax slightly against me, but I could tell there was more she needed to say.

"Alan wanted to fight them too," she said, glancing at her young uncle. "He was so angry. I was scared he was going to get hurt because he's smaller than them, but he was ready to do it anyway."

I looked at Alan, who was sitting on the couch with his hands folded in his lap and his jaw set in that stubborn way that reminded me so much of his brother. "You were going to take on two eighth graders?"

"They were talking about Gus," he said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did. The Kirschbaum family loyalty was legendary, and Alan had been raised to believe that family always came first.

Steve cleared his throat gently. "Shannon, I think there's something else you need to consider here."

I looked at him, seeing the way his eyes moved between Lucinda and Alan with that careful assessment that meant he was thinking about something important.

"I've been watching these two kids together," he said, "and I think what happened at school might not just be about protecting Gus. I think it might be about Lucinda protecting herself too."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that when kids mock someone for being different in the way those boys were mocking Gus, it might feel like a personal attack to someone who processes the world the same way he does."

The implication hit me like a physical blow. We'd had Lucinda tested when she was younger, along with James, because the specialists had suggested it given Gus's autism diagnosis. The results had been inconclusive but had suggested she might be on the spectrum, though very high-functioning. We'd filed that information away, planning to revisit it as she got older, but we hadn't really talked about what it might mean for her daily life.

"You think she saw the attack on Gus as an attack on herself," I said slowly.

"I think it's possible," Steve said gently. "And I think that might be something worth exploring with a professional who specializes in helping kids understand and navigate these kinds of situations."

Lucinda had gone very still in my arms. "Am I... am I like Dad?"

The question was so quiet, so vulnerable, that it broke my heart. But when I looked down at her face, I didn't see fear there. I saw hope.

"Would that be scary for you?" I asked carefully.

She considered this for a long moment, with that same thoughtful precision that Gus brought to difficult questions. "No," she said finally. "I think it would explain a lot of things. Like why some stuff is so hard for me that seems easy for other kids. And why I understand Dad so well when other people think he's, I don't know, confusing."

I felt something shift inside my chest, a realignment of understanding that was both painful and liberating. All this time, I'd been trying to push Lucinda toward activities and interests that felt natural to me, never considering that what felt natural to her might be completely different.

"Lucinda," I said, "I think we need to show this video to your dad."

Her body tensed immediately. "No, Mom, please. I don't want him to... You know."

"But honey, keeping secrets about something this important isn't fair to any of us. And I think your dad might understand better than you realize."

Steve leaned forward in his chair. "Lucinda, can I tell you something about your dad when he was your age?"

She nodded, still pressed against my side but listening intently.

"Gus has been dealing with kids making fun of him since he was old enough to go to school. It hurt, of course it did, but you know what he learned? He learned that the opinion of people who would mock someone for being different wasn't worth very much. And he learned that the people who truly mattered, the people who were worth his time and love, were the ones who accepted him exactly as he was."

"But what if it hurts him?"

"It might make him sad that you had to deal with it," Steve said gently. "But it won't make him sad that you stood up for him. It'll make him proud. And it'll probably help him understand some things about you that he's been wondering about."

Alan spoke up from his spot on the couch. "Lu, Gus is tough. He's one of the strongest people I know. He was a Marine, remember? I don't think a couple of stupid kids making jokes is going to break him."

I could feel Lucinda thinking, processing this information the way she always did, carefully and thoroughly. Finally, she pulled back to look at me directly.

"Will you be there when we show him? Will you help me explain?"

"Of course I will. We're in this together, always."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. But I want to do it tomorrow. I need time to put together what I want to say."

That evening, after we'd returned home and the younger kids were in bed, I found myself sitting on our back porch with a cup of tea, trying to process everything that had happened. The spring air was cool and sweet with the scent of the apple tree that was just beginning to bloom in our neighbor's yard.

I thought about my own childhood, about the way my mother had tried to shape me into her vision of what I should be, and how that had nearly destroyed our relationship. I thought about the conversation we'd had weeks ago, when she'd accused me of doing the same thing to Lucinda that she'd done to me. At the time, I'd been defensive, angry at the suggestion that I was anything like the controlling mother I'd resented for so many years.

But sitting there in the quiet evening air, I had to admit again that she'd been right. I had been trying to turn Lucinda into a miniature version of myself and Liz, pushing her toward activities that showcased the kinds of skills I valued rather than the ones that came naturally to her. I'd been so focused on what I thought her potential was that I'd failed to see who she actually was.

The back door opened, and Gus stepped out onto the porch, carrying his own cup of tea and settling into the chair beside me with that careful, deliberate movement that was so distinctly his.

"You've been quiet tonight," he said, not looking at me but staring out at the darkening sky. "Everything okay?"

I wanted to tell him about the video, about what we'd learned, but I'd promised Lucinda that we'd do it together tomorrow. Instead, I found myself thinking about all the ways I'd failed to appreciate the man sitting beside me.

"I've been thinking about patterns," I said finally. "About the ways we repeat our parents' mistakes without even realizing it."

He was quiet for a moment, sipping his tea and considering my words. "What kind of patterns?"

"The kind where we try to make the people we love into the people we think they should be instead of accepting who they are."

"Ah." There was understanding in that single syllable, and when I looked at him, I could see the gentle smile that meant he'd already figured out what I was struggling to say. "Lucinda."

"How long have you known?"

"That you were pushing her toward things that didn't fit? Since she was little. But I also knew that you were doing it out of love, out of wanting to give her every opportunity. I just wasn't sure how to talk to you about it without making you feel defensive."

I felt the familiar tightness in my chest that came with the realization that I'd been blind to something important. "I've been a terrible mother."

"No," he said firmly, reaching over to take my hand. "You've been a human mother. There's a difference."

"I've been trying to turn her into something she's not."

"And now you're not. That's what matters."

I looked at him, this man who had taught me so much about acceptance and patience and love without judgment, and felt a wave of gratitude so strong it almost took my breath away.

"How did you get so wise?" I asked.

"Practice," he said simply. "Lots of practice at being misunderstood and having to figure out how to be okay with it."

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the evening sounds of our neighborhood and watching the first stars appear in the darkening sky. I thought about Lucinda, about the protective fury I'd seen in that video, about the way she'd been willing to risk getting in trouble to defend someone she loved. I thought about Alan, ready to take on boys twice his size because they'd insulted his brother. I thought about the fierce loyalty that ran through this family like a river, connecting all of us in ways that went deeper than blood.

"Gus," I said eventually, "tomorrow Lucinda wants to show you something. Something about the fight at school."

He turned to look at me, and I could see him already putting pieces together in that quick, analytical way of his. "It was about me, wasn't it?"

The certainty in his voice shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. "How did you know?"

"Because I've been eleven years old and different in a school full of kids who didn't understand different. And because Lucinda is protective of the people she loves in a way that goes beyond typical family loyalty." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "And because I've suspected for a while that she might process the world the way I do."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because it needed to be something she figured out for herself. And something you figured out too." He squeezed my hand gently. "Some realizations can't be forced, Shannon. They have to come naturally, or they don't stick."

I thought about that, about the way understanding had dawned slowly for me, building through conversations with my mother and observations of my daughter until it finally crystallized into something I couldn't ignore.

"I love you," I said suddenly, overwhelmed by the depth of feeling I had for this man who saw the world so clearly and loved so generously.

"I love you too," he said simply. "All of you. Exactly as you are."

The next day, I found myself standing in our backyard with Lucinda beside me, watching Gus settle into one of the patio chairs with the patient attention he brought to any situation that required careful consideration. Mom had come over to watch James and Rosie, giving us the privacy we needed for this conversation.

Lucinda had been nervous all morning, picking at her breakfast and changing her clothes three times before finally settling on jeans and her favorite t-shirt, the one with a faded picture of Neil Peart behind his massive drum kit. She'd been fascinated by Rush's drummer for months now, spending hours watching videos of his performances and trying to replicate his complex rhythms on her practice kit in the garage.

"Dad," she said, her voice carefully controlled, "I need to tell you something about the fight at school."

Gus nodded, his gray eyes focused on her face with that complete attention that made whoever he was talking to feel like the most important person in the world. "I'm listening."

She took a deep breath and launched into her explanation, her words coming faster as she went, as if she was afraid she'd lose her courage if she slowed down. She told him about overhearing the boys making fun of him, about how angry and hurt it had made her, about how she'd tried to get them to stop before resorting to hitting them.

"I didn't want you to know," she finished, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. "I didn't want you to be hurt. I didn't want you to feel bad about being different."

Gus listened to all of this without interruption, his expression thoughtful but not surprised. When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment, and I could see him processing not just what she'd said, but all the implications behind it.

"Can I see the video?" he asked finally.

Lucinda handed him her phone with shaking hands. I watched his face as he watched the footage, saw the slight tightening around his eyes when he heard what the boys were saying, saw the small smile that appeared when he watched Lucinda defend him with such fierce determination.

When the video ended, he handed the phone back to her and was quiet for another long moment.

"Lucinda," he said finally, "I need you to understand something. I've been dealing with people making fun of me for being different my entire life. It started when I was younger than you are now, and it's never completely stopped."

Her face crumpled. "That's horrible."

"Sometimes it is," he agreed. "But you know what I learned? The people who would mock someone for being different aren't people whose opinions matter to me. And the people whose opinions do matter, people like you and your mom and Grandpa Steve and Alan, those people love me exactly as I am."

"But it's not fair."

"No, it's not. But fair isn't really the point. The point is how we choose to respond to unfairness." He leaned forward slightly, his voice becoming more gentle. "And you chose to defend someone you love. That makes me incredibly proud of you."

"Even though I hit them?"

"I wish you hadn't had to resort to hitting them," he said carefully. "But I understand why you did. When someone attacks the people we love, our first instinct is to protect them. And I know your mother isn't going to like me saying this, but if you think someone's going to try to hurt you, you never, ever let them get close enough to do so."

I could see Lucinda beginning to relax slightly, but there was still something weighing on her.

"Dad," she said quietly, "do you think... do you think I might be like you? Different in the same way?"

The question hung in the air between them, and I held my breath waiting for his response.

"I think," he said slowly, "that you might process the world in some of the same ways I do. And if that's true, it would explain a lot of things. Like why you understand me so well. Like why you get overwhelmed in certain social situations. Like why some things that seem easy for other kids feel difficult for you."

"Would that be bad?"

"Being like me?" He smiled, and it was one of those rare, completely unguarded smiles that transformed his whole face. "Lucinda, being like me means being thoughtful and analytical. It means having intense interests that you pursue with incredible dedication. It means seeing patterns and connections that other people miss. It means having a different perspective on the world that can be incredibly valuable."

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

"It also means that some things will be harder for you than they are for other people. Social situations might feel more complicated. You might need more time to process information. You might feel overwhelmed by things that don't bother other people." He reached out and touched her hand gently. "But different isn't wrong, honey. Different is just different."

"I think I'd like to know for sure," she said. "I think I'd like to understand how my brain works."

I felt something ease in my chest, a tension I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying. "We can arrange for you to see someone who specializes in helping kids understand these things about themselves."

Gus nodded. "And in the meantime, we can start paying more attention to what kinds of activities and environments feel good to you, instead of pushing you toward things that feel difficult."

Lucinda looked between us, and I could see relief beginning to replace the anxiety that had been shadowing her for weeks.

"I want to keep drumming," she said suddenly. "I know you think I should do debate team and mock trial, Mom, but drumming is what I love. When I'm playing, especially when I'm working on something complicated like those Neil Peart solos, everything else just disappears. It's like meditation, but with rhythm."

I thought about all the hours she'd spent in the garage with her practice kit, the way her face lit up when she mastered a particularly difficult passage, the videos she'd shown me of Peart's legendary drum solos where every beat was precisely placed and every fill served the song.

"Tell me about what you love about Neil Peart's playing," I said, genuinely curious.

Her whole posture changed, becoming more animated as she launched into an explanation of Peart's technical precision, his innovative approach to rhythm, and the way he elevated drumming from simple time-keeping to musical storytelling. She talked about his famous drum solos, particularly the one called "The Rhythm Method," and how he managed to make the drums both percussive and melodic at the same time.

"He wasn't just keeping time," she said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "He was composing with rhythm. Every beat meant something. Every fill was placed exactly where it needed to be to serve the song."

Gus was listening with the same focused attention he'd given to her explanation about the fight, and I could see him recognizing something in the way she talked about music that resonated with his own passionate focus on his interests.

"Did you know your mom used to end some of her recitals with a Rush song? That kind of precision and dedication sounds very familiar," he said with a small smile. "It sounds like the way you approach everything that matters to you."

She nodded eagerly. "That's exactly what I love about it. It's complex and challenging, but it follows rules. There's structure to it, but within that structure, there's infinite possibility for creativity."

I felt a shift in my understanding, not just of Lucinda's interests, but of what those interests represented. She wasn't just being stubborn about drumming instead of debate. She was gravitating toward activities that matched the way her brain worked, that provided the kind of structured creativity that felt natural to her.

"I owe you an apology," I said suddenly. "I've been trying to push you toward activities that felt right to me instead of supporting the ones that felt right to you."

"You were trying to help me," she said generously. "You wanted me to have, you know, chances."

"I wanted you to have the opportunities I thought you should want," I corrected. "That's different from supporting the opportunities you actually want."

Gus cleared his throat gently. "There's something else we should talk about," he said. "Something I think might be important for Lucinda to understand."

We both looked at him expectantly.

"Lucinda, when you saw those boys making fun of me, and when you decided to defend me, I think part of what you were feeling might have been personal. Not just protective of me, but protective of yourself."

She frowned slightly, not understanding.

"I think," he continued carefully, "that when people mock someone for being different in the way I'm different, it might feel like they're mocking something in you too. Because if you process the world the way I do, then attacks on people like us feel like attacks on you personally."

I watched understanding dawn on her face, followed by something that looked like relief.

"That's exactly how it felt," she said quietly. "Like they were saying there was something wrong with the way I think, not just the way you think."

"And that's why this is so important," I said, pieces clicking together in my mind. "It's not just about understanding how your brain works. It's about understanding that there are other people who think like you do, and that thinking differently isn't something to be ashamed of."

Gus nodded. "There are lots of ways to be intelligent, lots of ways to see the world. The way you and I process information isn't better or worse than the way other people do it. It's just different."

We sat quietly for a few minutes, all of us absorbing this conversation and its implications.

The following days passed in a blur of phone calls and appointments as we began the process of getting Lucinda connected with specialists who could help her understand her own neurodiversity. But more importantly, the atmosphere in our house began to shift in subtle but significant ways.

I stopped mentioning debate team and mock trial. Instead, I found myself asking Lucinda about her drumming practice, about the songs she was learning, about the techniques she was working on. I watched her face light up as she talked about the complexity of progressive rock rhythms and the influence of jazz on modern percussion.

Gus began spending more time with her in the garage, not to learn drumming himself, but to provide the kind of focused, analytical discussion of her interest that she craved. I would find them out there together, Lucinda playing through a difficult passage while Gus listened with complete attention, offering observations about the mathematical relationships between beats or the way certain rhythms created emotional tension.

And slowly, I began to see my daughter for who she really was rather than who I'd been trying to make her into. She was thoughtful and analytical like her father, but she was also creative and passionate in ways that were uniquely her own. She had strong opinions and fierce loyalties, and when she cared about something, she pursued it with an intensity that was both admirable and slightly overwhelming.

The morning of Lucinda's first day back to school after her suspension, Mom and I took her to her favorite breakfast restaurant, a little diner downtown that served pancakes as big as dinner plates and had been in business since before I was born.

Lucinda ordered with the enthusiasm of someone who rarely got to eat sugar for breakfast: chocolate chip pancakes with extra syrup and whipped cream, plus a side of French toast that was thick-cut and dusted with powdered sugar. I watched her tackle this feast with the single-minded focus she brought to everything she cared about, and felt a wave of affection so strong it almost took my breath away.

"Lucinda," I said as she was finishing the last bite of French toast, "I want you to know something."

She looked up at me, her face slightly smeared with whipped cream and her eyes bright with sugar-fueled energy.

"I love you exactly as you are," I said. "Not as who I think you should be, not as who you might become, but as who you are right now, in this moment. And that love isn't conditional on anything you do or don't do, anything you achieve or don't achieve. It just is."

Her smile was radiant. "I love you too, Mom."

My mother reached over and squeezed Lucinda's hand. "You're pretty amazing, kiddo. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

As we were gathering our things to leave, I turned to Lucinda with the kind of excitement I hadn't felt about a surprise in months.

"I have something to tell you about summer break," I said.

She looked at me expectantly.

"During the first week of your summer vacation, you and I and Grandma are taking a trip. We're flying to Cleveland, where we're getting a private tour of the Cleveland Botanical Gardens from one of their staff botanists."

Lucinda's eyes widened. She'd been fascinated by plants and gardening since she was small, and this dovetailed perfectly into the landscaping with my brothers, her uncles.

"But that's not all," I continued. "We're also spending two days at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where they're hosting a special seminar on rock percussion. The instructors are El Estepario Siberiano and Danny Carey from Tool."

The look on her face was worth every penny the trip was going to cost. She knew exactly who both of those drummers were, had watched countless videos of their performances, had tried to learn some of their more accessible songs.

"Just the three of us?" she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

"Just the three of us. Your dad's going to stay home with James and Rosie, with help from Aunt Liz and Alicia."

She threw her arms around me with such force that she nearly knocked me off my chair. "Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much."

"Thank you for being patient with me while I figured out how to be the mother you needed," I said into her hair.

As we walked to the car, mom fell into step beside me. "That was a good thing you did in there," she said quietly.

"I'm still learning," I admitted. "I'm still figuring out how to see her clearly instead of seeing her through the filter of my own expectations. Besides, I may make you pay for the trip."

She laughed. "Do better tomorrow than today. That's all any of us can do," Mom said. "Keep learning, keep adjusting, keep loving them for who they are."

I thought about that as we drove Lucinda to school, about the ways we all carry our parents' mistakes forward until we learn to recognize them and choose differently. I thought about the patterns we perpetuate unconsciously and the courage it takes to break them. I thought about my mother, trying to shape me into her vision of success, and about myself, trying to shape Lucinda into mine.

But patterns could be broken. Understanding could grow. Love could evolve from trying to change someone into accepting them completely.

When we pulled up to the school, Lucinda gathered her backpack and turned to me with that serious expression she wore when she was about to say something important.

"Mom, I know I can't use my fists every time someone says something mean about our family. I know that's not the right way to handle things."

"But you also know that standing up for people you love is important," I said. "We just need to help you find better ways to do it."

"Like using words instead of fists?"

"Like using words, or getting adults involved, or sometimes just walking away and not letting other people's ignorance affect you." I paused, thinking about the complexity of what I was trying to teach her. "Sometimes the best way to defend someone is to live your life in a way that shows how wrong the people criticizing them are."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Like how Dad shows people he's a good teacher by being a good teacher, even when some people have a problem with him?"

"Exactly like that."

She kissed my cheek and headed toward the school building, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders and her head held high. I watched until she disappeared through the doors, then sat in the car for a few minutes longer.

She was perfect. She had always been perfect. She was exactly the daughter I needed, exactly the person the world needed her to be.

And finally, finally, I was learning how to be exactly the mother she needed me to be.

***

With thanks to Steve. Any story that I write that contains Gus, Lucinda or any neurodiverse character is greatly improved by his guidance and feedback.

My thanks also go out to my supporters. Their backing is always greatly appreciated.

I've had a novel length prequel to the Pueblo series ready and waiting to go for quite a while. It needs another light edit, but is otherwise set. Pop as a young Marine, Judge Sallister when he was first starting out, and how the whole clan got started.