I am two years old. I am lying on the living-room floor, scribbling pictures with my sisters’ wax crayons. I have probably been told there will be another baby, some day, soon, maybe today, but I haven’t thought about it yet. A pair of low-heeled, dark-blue shoes creak into the room, but I don’t look up. A voice above me tries too hard to cajole. “Don’t you want to see your new baby sister?” I tell her I’m busy colouring. It’s a family joke for years to come, but I never understand, because it was true: I was busy colouring.
Fiona M Jones writes short, dark-themed fiction and nature-themed nonfiction. fionamjones.wordpress.com. Bluesky, Facebook, and X: @FiiJ20