Two

She was sitting in a small umbrella stroller, sucking her thumb. The woman she was with pulled a compact from her purse and started patting at her eyes with makeup. Then they saw me and Fresco sitting across from them.

“I remember when you were that small,” said the woman to the girl, “before you were a holy terror like you are now.”

The little girl took her thumb out of her mouth and pointed at Fresco.

“It’s a baby,” said the woman, “a very pretty baby. How old is the baby,” she asked me.

“6 months,” I said.

“That’s a nice age,” she said.

“How old are you,” I asked the little girl. She stared at me.

“She’s two,” said the woman.

“Wow,” I said, “I have a little boy at home who’s two.”

“She’s awful,” said the woman, “she just tantrums all the time. I love her to pieces but…”

“Two is hard,” I said, and to the girl, “it’s hard being two, right?” The little girl nodded. She pouted, stuck that bottom lip out till it was almost touching her chin.

“Anyway, she’s my niece,” said the woman, “I just look after her during the day.”

The bus drove for a while. The little girl stared at me. Said something to her aunt.

“Well I’m going to Grandpa’s. I don’t know where YOU’RE going,” the woman said, “do you think Grandpa wants to see bad little girls?”

Yes, I thought. Yes Grandpa does. Whether you’re bad or not. Grandpa wants to see you. I waited for something, anything, to break the silence, a laugh, an “Auntie’s just kidding,” but there was nothing.

“She sucks her thumb, right?” the woman said to me, “I’ve told her mother, you should get her to stop, but she doesn’t care.” She reached out to move some hair from the girl’s forehead and the little girl flinched. And so did I.

“It’s a hard habit to break,” I said. “I guess it feels good.”

“My kid did it once,” the woman said, “and that was the last time.”

More silence.

Their stop came and she wheeled the stroller off backwards, the little girl staring at me. I waved. She half-smiled.

No matter what anyone tells you, you are not a bad person. You deserve to be loved for who you are. You are just a little girl, just a baby. Maybe you are a handful but she shouldn’t say that to people, not in front of you. You’re still learning. It’s not your fault.

I willed her to hear my thoughts over the hissing and squealing of the bus, over the voices of her family, over her own voice. I don’t know if she did, so when we got off the bus I told Fresco too. The more children hear it, the better, I figure.