perfect unbroken nuclear family, with mum, dad and two siblings.
Miss Barnes really needs to rethink this project, thought Madeline. She’d had enough trouble herself when she was helping Chloe with hers. There had been the tricky matter of whether a line should be drawn from Abigail’s picture to Ed. “You’ll have to put in a photo of Abigail’s real dad,” Fred had said helpfully, looking over their shoulders. “And his car?”
“No we don’t,” Madeline had said.
“It doesn’t have to be exactly like the one Miss Barnes gave you,” Madeline said to Ziggy. “Everyone’s project will be different. That’s just an example.”
“Yes, but you have to write down your mother’s and your father’s name,” said Ziggy. “What’s my dad’s name? Just say it, Mummy. Just spell it. I don’t know how to spell it. I’ll get in trouble if I don’t write down his name.”
Children did this. They sensed when there was something controversial or sensitive and they pushed and pushed like tiny prosecutors.
Poor Jane had gone very still.
“Sweetheart,” she said carefully, her eyes on Ziggy, “I’ve told you this story so many times. Your dad would have loved you if he’d known you, but I’m so sorry, I don’t know his name, and I know that’s not fair—”
“But you have to write a name there! Miss Barnes said!” There was a familiar note of hysteria in his voice. Overtired five-year-olds needed to be handled like explosive devices.
“I don’t know his name!” said Jane, and Madeline recognized the gritted-teeth note in her voice too, because there was something in your children that could bring out the child in yourself. Nothing and nobody could aggravate you the way your child could aggravate you.
“Oh, Ziggy, darling, see, this happens all the time,” said Madeline. For God’s sake. It probably did. There were plenty of single mothers in the area. Madeline was going to have a word with Miss Barnes tomorrow to ensure that she stopped assigning this ridiculous project. Why try to slot fractured families into neat little boxes in this day and age?
“This is what you do. You write ‘Ziggy’s dad.’ You know how to write ‘Ziggy,’ don’t you? Of course you do, that’s it.”
To her relief, Ziggy obeyed, writing his name with his tongue out the side of his mouth to help him concentrate. “What neat writing!” encouraged Madeline feverishly. She didn’t want to give him time to think. “You are a much neater writer than my Chloe. And that’s it! You’re done! Your mum and I will stick down the rest of the photos while you’re asleep. Now. Story time! Right? And I’m wondering, could I read you a story? Would that be OK? I’d love to see your favorite book.”
Ziggy nodded dumbly, seemingly overwhelmed by her torrent of chatter. He stood up, his little shoulders drooping.
“Good night, Ziggy,” said Jane.
“Good night, Mummy,” said Ziggy. They kissed each other good night like warring spouses, their eyes not meeting, and then Ziggy took Madeline’s hand and allowed her to lead him off to his bedroom.
In less than ten minutes she was back out in the living room. Jane looked up. She was carefully pasting the last photo onto the family tree.
“Out like a light,” said Madeline. “He actually fell asleep while I was reading, like a child in a movie. I didn’t know children really did that.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Jane. “You shouldn’t have to come over here and put another child to bed, but I am so grateful to you, because I didn’t want to get into a conversation with him just before bed about that, and—”
“Shhhh.” Madeline sat down next to her and put her hand on her arm. “It was nothing. I know what it’s like. Kindergarten is stressful. They get so tired.”
“He’s never been like that before,” said Jane. “About his father. I mean, I always knew it might be an issue one day, but I thought it wouldn’t be until he was thirteen or something. I thought I’d have time to work out exactly what to say. Mum and Dad always said stick to the truth, but you know, the truth isn’t always . . . it’s not always . . . well, it’s not always that—”
“Palatable,” offered Madeline.
“Yes,” said Jane. She adjusted the corner of the photo she’d just glued down and surveyed the piece of cardboard. “He’ll be the only one in the class without a picture in the box for his father.”
“That’s not the end of the world,” said Madeline. She touched the