“Dad says that every plant is different, like every person is different. Some want more water or less sun, or more sun and less water—you just have to get to know them.”

“Plants are like people,” I repeat. “I like that. Hey, why does your grandma call you Mieko?” I whisper.

“That’s my middle name, but she’s the only one who calls me that—it’s sort of her pet name for me.”

“My gramps calls me Sassafras—oh, but that’s not my middle name!” I’m quick to add. “I have two middle names, actually. Sadie Kathryn Eleanor Mitchell-Rosen. After both of my moms’ first names.”

“That’s sort of like me: Mieko was my great-grandma’s name,” she says as she picks up a spray bottle from one of the plant stands and spritzes a few of the plants.

“I’ve always liked that my middle names are bigger than just me,” I say. “I don’t know, it makes me feel kind of . . .”

“Special?” Macy puts forth.

“Yeah,” I agree.

Macy nods and turns a few of the pots toward the sun. “Let’s go to my room,” she says. “You can meet my bunny.”

We go down a hallway and reach a door that has the letters M.M.M. cut out of felt and paper, and hung across the door with string. “Macy Mieko MacHine.”

“Yep,” she answers, pushing her door open. “M.M.M.”

“Wow,” I say out loud. Her room is somehow the exact opposite of what I would’ve imagined it to be—all full of lightness and delicate colors (peaches and creams and the softest blues and tans)—yet at the same time, the more I get to know her, it also seems perfect.

She has a canopy over her bed, but instead of fabric it is covered with string and origami shapes stitched together in long strands that hang over the sides. It reminds me of this one Chrismukkah a few years ago when Noah and I stayed up late and attempted to make popcorn and dried cranberry garlands, except we ate most of it in the process, so they ended up being sad-looking strings. This origami garland looks as pretty as I thought our popcorn garland was going to be.

There are soft twinkle lights wrapped around the shades of two bedside lamps, and when she flips her light switch, they automatically light up, giving everything a soft, dreamy glow. As my eyes travel all around, they’re drawn upward—a sky mural, painted blue and dotted with cotton candy-like clouds, covers the entire ceiling.

On Macy’s bedside table I see a framed picture. It’s of a younger Macy and a woman who looks a little bit like Macy and a little bit like her sobo too—Macy’s mom.

“Macy, this is like a fairy bedroom—everything’s so magical!”

She grins ear to ear. “You like it?”