The late afternoon sun warmed my cheeks. I was sleepy. Watching the butterflies dry their newly opened wings eased my tension. Those colors—fiery orange with precise black lines webbing in perfect symmetry, white dots like pearl-laced edging—were brilliant and creamy. The patterns on their wings, made from the finest silky powders, were a reminder that life had order. Sometimes you just had to look for it.

“Why is mine not flying away?” Emily said.

“He’s still drying his wings. Patience.”

“There he goes,” Sawyer said, watching his butterfly fly away, wonder on his face.

“All the caterpillar poop was totally worth it, don’t you think, Sawyer?” I said.

Ignoring me, he watched the caterpillar flit around, its path wild and jumpy. It seemed senseless, but it was a survivor’s tactic. Unpredictable, erratic behavior kept you safe. It made me think of Desiree.

Eyes on his butterfly as it landed on a milkweed, he said softly, “My mom left me a message. Said she wanted me to visit her in, well, that place.”

I bit my lip. Say the correct thing. “I can drive you if you want. Anytime you want.”

He said nothing.

“Or your dad could take you,” I said. “Whatever you think.”

He nodded. Then, to give him space, I turned my attention to Emily. “How’s your caterpillar doing?”

Emily shook her finger a little, maybe to give him motivation. The butterfly let go of her finger, looked like it was swooping down to take off, but then fell and landed on the deck beside her chair. She stood and turned to see where it went, but her sneaker stepped on it.

“Careful!” I yelled, out of my chair and pushing her to the side. Emily fell.

Sweaty and panicked, I scooped up the butterfly and walked quickly away from them and around to the side of the house toward the milkweed patch.

Behind me, Emily howled. “Why’d you push me, Momma?”

Sawyer, accusing, angry, “Did you step on it, Emily? Did she?”

Emily cried louder. The door slammed, and her crying quieted. She’d gone inside.

It was alive, but one of its wings was wrinkled.

Sawyer marched up behind me. I could smell him. I could feel his fury charging the air. His voice biting, he said, “Did she kill it?”

I wanted to tell him, It probably wouldn’t have survived as a baby caterpillar unless we’d brought it inside. We saved more than would have survived. But now was not the time for logic.

I tucked it under a bush, out of sight. “It’s OK, Sawyer. She stepped on the very edge of the wing. It was an accident, but it will be fine.”

Pissed off, he went inside.