The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.11

EROS

Claire Dawson confronted me right in my own kitchen. She was just five feet away, dusted with baking ingredients, and declared that my daughter's dietary guidelines lacked joy. She said it boldly, without flinching, without retreating, and without the polite restraint that everyone else around me had learned to adopt.

No one spoke to me in that manner. No one.

The most troubling thought that kept replaying in my mind was that she was right. About the laughter. About the cookies. About the expression on Chloe's face when she savored something sweet and simple, feeling, if only for a moment, like an ordinary kid enjoying a typical afternoon.

I headed downstairs to get some water. The kitchen was immaculate. Every surface polished, every dish cleaned, every sign of the cookie incident wiped away as if it had never occurred. Claire was done. The only trace left was the subtle aroma of chocolate and brown butter hanging in the air, with Claire at the long marble counter, softly humming to herself.

Her voice was too soft for anyone to hear, yet it felt too piercing beneath my skin. She was surrounded by roses, carefully arranging them in the vase.

Veronica's vase.

The one I haven't dared to touch since she departed. The one that remains untouched by anyone. The one that still feels like a bruise whenever it crosses my mind.

I stood frozen. My chest tightened, my breath sharp and frigid. She was oblivious to my presence. She picked up a rose, her fingers delicate, turning it as if she were admiring its beauty. Completely unaware that she had stepped onto hallowed ground. Ground that I had never allowed anyone to tread upon.

Emotions surged within me—too rapid, too intense. Panic, anger, sorrow, all those old, tangled feelings ignited simultaneously. My voice escaped louder than I had meant it to.

"Who gave you permission to touch that?"

She jumped back in shock, almost dropping the rose. Her eyes darted to mine, wide and alarmed.

"I...thought the flowers would make the kitchen more cheerful."

"I never asked you to make it cheerful." My voice came out sharper than intended.

"You're a nanny, not an interior designer," I retorted. "Leave things alone that you don't comprehend."

Her complexion paled. The spark in her eyes faded.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, already moving to take away the roses. Her hands trembled slightly. A thorn pricked her skin. She recoiled but remained silent. She didn't even glance at me. A drop of blood formed on her fingertip. I noticed it. I despised that I noticed it.

"That's why you shouldn't interfere with things that don't belong to you," I muttered, instantly regretting my words.

She carefully removed each rose, almost with a sense of tenderness, as if the weight of her guilt surpassed that of the vase itself. The kitchen was too quiet, too dense. It felt as though the walls were holding their breath.

"You're bleeding," I said stiffly. "The first-aid kit is in the drawer to your left."

"It's fine," she murmured, cradling her hand close and still avoiding my gaze. "I can take care of it."

I stepped closer before I could stop myself. Irritation, along with something else—something unwelcome—tightened beneath my skin. "You should disinfect it."

"I said I'm fine," she replied softly, embarrassed and hurt.

She gently gathered the roses and reverently lifted the crystal vase, placing it back into the cabinet exactly where it belonged. Exactly where I kept it.

Untouchable.

She whispered, "I didn't mean to upset you."

Then she quietly walked away. No tears. No arguments. Just...gone. Somehow, that felt even worse.

I found myself alone in the kitchen, enveloped by the faint aroma of roses that brought back memories I had spent years trying to suppress.

I tightened my fists.

Claire didn’t deserve the brunt of my reaction. Yet, she touched on something she couldn’t possibly know was significant.

Still...her soft apology wrapped around me more tightly than her mistake ever could.

I didn’t intend to upset you.

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with her, with myself, with the way she unearthed feelings I had buried so deep I had forgotten they still existed. I shouldn’t care that she looked hurt or that there was a cut on her finger. I shouldn’t care about any of it.

But I do. And I loathe what that implies. Because for the first time in years, old wounds are stirring. And she’s the cause.

And I have no idea how to stop it.

I filled a glass at the sink and turned to head back upstairs. Then I noticed them.

The living room was dim, illuminated only by the soft light of a floor lamp near the window. Claire was on the couch, asleep, her head tilted at an angle that would surely hurt her neck by morning. She was still wearing the flour-dusted clothes from earlier, her phone lying face-down on the cushion next to her, one hand dangling off the edge of the couch.

And there was Chloe.

My daughter, who was meant to be asleep, whom I had tucked in two and a half hours earlier with her bear, the nightlight, and the door ajar by six inches, was nestled against Claire's side on the couch, her tiny body fitting into the curve of Claire's hip like a puzzle piece finding its match. Her head lay on Claire's stomach. Her breathing was deep and steady. The bear was wedged between them.

One of Chloe's hands clutched the fabric of Claire's shirt in a loose grip, holding on even in her slumber.

I stood in my living room, gazing at them for an extended moment.

Something broke. Not my chest this time. Something deeper. Something foundational. The load-bearing wall I constructed between the part of me that controlled everything and the part of me that experienced emotions, the wall I fortified every day for three years with rules and schedules and the unwavering belief that keeping people at a distance was synonymous with keeping them safe.

It cracked. I heard it. A sound that wasn't truly a sound, more like the silence that follows when something

has been bearing too much weight finally gives way. Chloe had gotten out of bed and was searching for Claire. Not for me.

For Claire. She padded down the hallway on her socked feet, discovered this woman asleep on the couch, and crawled up

next to her, falling asleep while holding on.

My daughter has made a choice. My daughter, who hadn't chosen anyone since the person she was biologically

programmed to choose had walked out the front door without a backward glance, had walked out of her room in the middle of

the night and chosen Claire Dawson.

I placed the water glass on the counter. I went to the hallway closet, retrieved a blanket, and brought it to the living room. I draped it over both of them, gently, slowly, as if handling something that would break if you breathed too hard. Claire stirred. Her eyes opened halfway, unfocused, blinking up at me in the dim light.

"Chloe..." she whispered, her hand instinctively reaching for the small figure beside her. "She came out. I intended to bring her back. I just shut my eyes for a moment...."

"Get some rest," I told her.

She gazed at me, puzzled, searching my expression for the anger that had previously been present. It was absent.

"The cookies were delicious. Please, sleep now, Claire."

Her eyes met mine for a brief moment. Then she shut them, her hand resting on Chloe's back, and her breathing became steady. I lingered for another minute. Perhaps two. After that, I turned off the floor lamp, ensured the front door was locked, and headed upstairs to bed.