You tear pages out of magazines and leave them around your room. They’re all advertisements for children’s toys—cheerful pastel, smiling kids, spotless playrooms. I gather them up while you’re out of the room, plucking them from the foot of your bed, the dresser, the rocking chair by the window.
The bathroom door opens and you walk slowly toward me, clutching your cane, smiling your polite smile as you tilt your head. I move towards you and show you the toy on the top page. Peppa Pig’s shiny pink bubble machine.
“Oh, dear,” you say, touching my arm. “My daughter Emma would love that.”
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