I held Rosie tighter.

Grandma looked down.

“Why?”

“Because it’s broken.”

“So?”

Dad held out his hand.

“I’ll throw it away.”

I stepped backward.

“No.”

Dad looked at me.

“Emma, give it to me.”

Grandma turned slightly.

She could see Rosie better now.

One arm missing.

Yellow dress torn.

Brown mark on her face.

The stitching along her back was loose.

Grandma’s eyes stayed there.

Dad reached past her.

I pulled Rosie against my chest.

“No!”

It was the loudest I’d spoken all night.

Grandma caught Rosie’s dress before Dad’s fingers reached it.

For one strange second, all three of us were touching the doll.

Me.

Grandma.

Dad.

Then Grandma pulled Rosie toward herself.

Dad let go.

“What are you doing?”

Grandma held the doll in one hand.

She looked at it.

Then at Dad.

“Why do you suddenly care about this doll?”

“I don’t.”

“You just tried to take it from her.”

“Because it’s garbage.”

“It wasn’t garbage ten minutes ago.”

Dad looked toward the front door.

Uncle Ben hadn’t come back yet.

That seemed to bother him.

“Mom, give me the damn doll.”

Grandma’s face changed.

Just slightly.

She handed me to Aunt Rachel.

Not the doll.

Me.

Aunt Rachel wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

Grandma kept Rosie.

“No.”

Dad took one step toward her.

Grandma took one step backward.

The front door opened.

Uncle Ben came inside.

He looked at Grandma.

Then at Dad.

“Someone’s coming.”

Dad went completely still.

I didn’t know who.

Nobody explained it to me.

Grandma didn’t ask.

She just tucked Rosie under her arm and reached for my hand again.

Dad pointed toward the staircase.

“Emma, go to your room.”

I looked at Grandma.

She shook her head.

Dad’s voice got louder.

“I said go upstairs.”

Grandma moved me toward the living room.

“She’s not going anywhere alone with you tonight.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Grandma looked at Uncle Ben.

Then Aunt Rachel.

Then me.

“Maybe not.”

She looked down at Rosie.

“But somebody else can.”

Dad’s eyes followed hers.

Right back to the doll.

And that was when I knew Rosie mattered.

I just didn’t know why.

Grandma Put Rosie in Her Purse

We waited in the living room.

Nobody ate the cake.

Nobody played music anymore.

Some people left without saying goodbye.

Others stayed.

Dad walked between the kitchen and dining room several times, picking things up and putting them down.

Once he carried the same stack of paper plates from the island to the dining table and then back again.

Grandma sat beside me.

Rosie was in her lap.

She kept turning the doll over.

Not playing with her.

Looking.

Dad noticed.

“Stop doing that.”

Grandma looked up.

“Doing what?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned Rosie over again.

The seam on Rosie’s back had opened wider.

I could see some of the white stuffing.

Grandma touched it.

Dad crossed the room.

“Mom.”

Grandma stood.

She put Rosie inside her purse.

Dad stopped.

“Give her back.”

“Emma can have her back when we leave.”

“I said give her back.”

Grandma zipped the purse.

That sound was very small.

It was also the last sound anybody made for several seconds.

Dad stared at the purse.

Then he stared at Grandma.

He didn’t ask about my cheek.

He didn’t ask whether my wrists hurt.

He didn’t ask if I was hungry.

He asked about Rosie.

Again.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Grandma put the purse over her shoulder.

“That’s why I’m not throwing anything away.”

There was a knock at the front door.

Dad turned toward it.

I looked at Grandma.

She took my hand.

Her black flats were beside my sneakers now.

The curtain was still open behind us.

For most of the night, Dad had been worried about people seeing me.

But when the knock came again, he wasn’t looking at me anymore.

He was looking at Grandma’s purse.

And Grandma had Rosie.