I walk slowly around my room, touching all the things that make it special. The bookcase my dad made for me, and all my favorite books. Some were my parents’ when they were kids, like Charlotte’s Web and The Secret Garden and The Velveteen Rabbit. And of course, Paddington Bear. I remember my mom and dad taking turns reading them to me, and then me reading most of them to Ivy, warning her when a sad or scary scene was coming. I wonder if there will be room for bookcases and books where we end up. Or if I’ll be able to have my own room. There’s so much I’ll probably have to give away, like all the old toys I saved because they were too important to part with. I kneel down next to my old dollhouse and lift the roof to look inside. I haven’t played with it in ages, but the little mouse family Micah and I made is still there. Mama Mouse is sleeping, and Papa Mouse is sitting on the couch. The brother is sitting at the kitchen table with the sister. And there’s a baby in a tiny cradle in the bedroom. Micah and I used to spend hours playing with the mice. Sometimes we’d put them in my Fisher-Price school bus and pretend it was a camper and take it out to the sandpile behind the house, or the stone wall, and have them go camping. We’d make tents out of sticks and scraps of cloth, and once we made a mini campfire with a votive candle, but my mom found us and we got in trouble for playing with matches.

What will happen to the mouse family? My dollhouse?

I put all the mice to bed and close the roof cover again.

This is all my parents’ fault. I don’t care if it’s unfair to say or think — it’s true.

I put my pajamas on, crawl into bed, and wait. I don’t know for what. Why would anyone come to check on me after that scene I made? I consider calling Micah, but I really don’t feel like it. He’d just tell me I’m acting like a big baby and that I should go tell everyone I’m sorry.