Owen was seven when he first brought Mara into our lives.
I was twelve.
He burst through our front door shouting:
“Claire! I need you!”
I ran downstairs expecting blood.
Instead, Owen stood beside a little girl wearing a red coat.
Dark hair.
Two crooked braids.
Pale gray eyes that did not focus.
One hand rested on Owen’s shoulder.
“This is Mara.”
She smiled slightly to my left.
“Hello.”
I stared at Owen.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why were you screaming?”
“She needs hot chocolate.”
Mara immediately said:
“I told him I’m fine.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m not.”
“Your hands are cold.”
“That doesn’t mean I need chocolate.”
Owen looked at me with exaggerated seriousness.
“She’s very stubborn.”
Mara replied:
“He walked me three blocks in the wrong direction.”
“I was taking a shortcut.”
“You got lost.”
“I knew where we were.”
“You asked a mailbox for directions.”
“I thought someone was standing behind it.”
I laughed.
Mara laughed too.
And that was how she entered our family.