The Collage

Janet looked at the blue paper. There they were. The dog that didn’t exist. The grandparents in Arizona. And Eve, pixelated and green-tinted, glued firmly next to Janet’s shoulder.

It wasn’t a “constellation of care.” It was a piece of construction paper smelling of chemicals. But it made Janet feel like she couldn’t breathe.

She had been protecting him. That was her excuse. She was building the fortress to keep Connor safe from the fallout. But Connor didn’t want the fortress. He wanted the teacher who knew about the lanternfish.

Janet stood up. She walked to the sink and dumped her wine down the drain. Her hands were shaking.

She walked back to the table. Connor was adding glitter glue to the title.

“Can I take a picture of that?” Janet asked.

Connor shrugged. “It’s not dry yet.”

“That’s okay.”

She pulled her phone out of her back pocket. The screen was cracked in the corner—a casualty of the parking lot drop a month ago. She opened the camera app.

She framed the shot. The blue paper. The jagged cutting job. The three faces: Janet, Connor, Eve.

She took the photo.

She opened her messages. She scrolled past the unread texts from her mother and the payment reminders from Verizon. She found the thread with Eve. It was short. Just logistical confirmations from months ago.

Janet stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the image gallery.

If she sent this, she was breaking the rules. She was crossing the line before the thirteen days were up. She was confirming the narrative.

She looked at Connor, blowing on the wet glitter.

People Who Matter.

She attached the photo.

She typed a caption. She deleted it. She typed another one. Deleted it.

She settled on the truth.

Janet: He was assigned a project about people who matter.