Body, Boundaries & Safety
Her Arms Were Already Open
Nana has been here since before lunch. The shortbread tin is down to crumbs. She showed Wren how to build a tower out of seven playing cards, and every time it fell, flap-flap-flap, Nana laughed the exact same surprised laugh. Every. Single. Time.
Nana’s bracelet has three tiny charms: a bird, a thimble and a boot. Clink, when she cuts the shortbread. Clink, when she turns a page. Clink, clink, when she reaches for her tea. Wren has known that sound her whole life.
And Nana always does one secret thing. She presses a hard candy, still twisted in its wrapper, into Wren’s hand and folds her fingers shut over it. No words. Like mailing a letter. Today too. Right on time.
Four o’clock. Dad starts looking at his watch and saying “traffic” to nobody at all. Nana collects her cardigan from the banister and her bag from the kitchen chair. The empty tin goes in the bag. Ready for next time.
Wren stands in the hallway, counting the tiles by the door. Black, white, black, white. Six black ones between her and the mat. Her tummy goes tight. It always does, right at this part of every Sunday.
Nana turns from the open door. She’s already bending down. Her arms are already opening, the way they do every single time. “Come here, sweet pea!” And she’s a whole step closer before she’s even finished saying it.
Arms open. Nana leaning in. Two seconds, maybe less, and it will be a hug, whether Wren wants one or not.
What does Wren do?
Any of these is fine to talk about. If something feels unsafe, telling a grown-up is always allowed.
Step into the hug and kiss goodbye anyway
Wren steps in. Nana’s cardigan smells like the inside of her purse. The bracelet is cold against Wren’s ear, then warm. Squeeze, squeeze, two squeezes, like always, and a kiss on the top of her head. Done. Almost before it started.
“There she is!” says Nana, delighted, with one last pat. Dad’s shoulders come down, the way they do when nothing has gone wrong. Wren smiles at Nana. Her hands are holding the bottom of her sweater. Quite tightly.
The door shuts. The hallway is just a hallway again. Wren sits on the second stair and unwraps the candy. It tastes exactly like it always does. Today looks exactly like every other Sunday.
That evening, brushing her teeth, Wren stares at herself in the mirror for a long time. Foam on her chin. Brush going around and around. “Mom…” she starts, through the foam. Then she spits and rinses. “Nothing. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow, then,” says Mom from the landing. “I’ll remind you.”
Ask for a wave instead of a hug
“No thank you,” says Wren, in a voice no bigger than the candy in her pocket. “Can I wave instead?” For half a second Nana’s arms just hang there in the air. Something crosses her face. Surprise, maybe. Then it’s gone.
Nana straightens up and turns her hug into the most enormous, ridiculous wave, all ten fingers wiggling, like a queen waving from a golden carriage. “Well then! The Queen it is!” She does it again. Bigger. Behind them, Dad clears his throat and studies the door handle very hard.
Nana royal-waves all the way down the path. At the gate she turns around and does it again. Bigger! Then once more. Even bigger! Wren waves back just as big. It’s sillier and louder than any hug has ever been.
The gate goes click. Dad fills the kettle, quieter than usual, as if he’s still catching up. Then, with his free hand, he gives the faucet a tiny royal wave. All five fingers. “Next Sunday,” he says, “I’m doing that one too.” In Wren’s pocket, Nana’s candy is still there, unopened. Saved for later.
Go quiet and half-hide behind Dad’s leg
Wren says nothing at all. She slides half behind Dad’s leg and holds a fold of his sweater, looking at the floor tiles instead of at Nana. “Someone’s feeling shy today,” says Dad, to nobody exactly. His hand rests on her shoulder. He doesn’t pull her forward.
Nana doesn’t come any closer. She leans around Dad’s arm, pats the bit of Wren’s hair she can reach, and says, “Bye, sweetie. See you next Sunday,” same as always. Her hand drops. The bracelet goes clink. Just once.
The door shuts. Wren pops out from behind Dad’s leg the very second it closes, already off to do something else, the candy already halfway unwrapped. Nothing about the last five minutes seems to be bothering anybody. At all.
Nobody mentions it again all day. Before bed, Wren stands by herself in the empty hallway and counts the black tiles, from the bottom stair all the way to the mat. Six. Six black tiles is six whole steps. Plenty of time, next Sunday, to pick a goodbye. She counts them once more, just to be sure, and goes up to bed.