S
itting in the attic, on her old tin chest, Daina draws a line down a scrap of paper. She writes two words at the top of the columns. Stay. Go.
The words jump out at her. There are plenty of reasons to stay. Motina has started to cook and clean again, and home is… home, though Daina still pinches herself when she enters the kitchen, wondering if Motina’s smile is just an act, if their home is a mere stage prop about to be wheeled away.
Daina chews on her pen. Motina will always be a question mark, like the shiny red ball hiding in that magic trick that Laima has perfected. Now you see it. Now you don’t. Not like Leah. Leah may not always understand where Daina’s coming from — she may frown and cluck and set down rules — but she’s as constant as the sun, and she is caring
Then, there’s the promise of music. Music. That’s a biggie. But is Motina’s promise of lessons even worth taking into consideration? Motina has never been strong on keeping her word. Daina holds her pencil to the paper and circles the small word: Go.
