It’s past midnight, early August. All I can hear is John snore from the sofa and Sissy grumble out in the balcony. She’s crouched down again in a corner, eyes wide open.
“Come in!” I wave at her. She scuttles into the living room. I lift her up onto my lap, rock and lull her to sleep.
In the morning, I wipe out once more the prints of small palms, fingers outstretched, against the windowpane. I let Sissy out, a bowl of cat food at her feet. The best brand. Since our baby died, Sissy has been like our only child.