“Emma had an accident.

The shirt is going in the sink.”

I eased the yellow sweatshirt over Emma’s head, trying not to drag the sticky part through her hair.

Underneath she had on a plain white cotton T-shirt.

I gave her a dry paper towel to wipe her sticky fingers.

“Stay right here and finish your milk,” I told Emma.

My mother let out a loud sigh and turned back to the electric stove.

The upstairs guest bathroom smelled of lavender soap and old pipes.