When adults spoke sharply, she became even quieter instead of louder. My mother described her as “easy.”

I had spent much of my own childhood hearing that same word. Easy meant nobody had to interrupt whatever they were already doing. Easy meant people could overlook you for a while and expect you to handle everything on your own.

I understood exactly what it meant. Still, I let myself believe that six nights would be safe.

For three summers, Mia had stayed with my parents and cousins during what my mother called Grandchildren Week. On the earlier visits I stayed through the first weekend.

The year before, Mia spent four nights there without me and came home overflowing with stories about backyard sprinklers, pancake breakfasts, and sleeping bags across the family room.

There had been minor warning signs. My mother forgot to pack the allergy cream I had left on the bathroom counter. Natalie trimmed Mia’s hair while they were meant to be coloring, and my mother dismissed it as “a funny cousin memory.”