Emery [bxb]

3

He cries often. It always starts with that wobbly bottom lip, plump and the colour of a ripe berry. Then his eyes gain a starry sheen and the first tear escapes, leaving a trail of salt down his smooth, round cheek. Every time it happens, I crouch down before him and gather his hands in my palms and murmur words of comfort. It doesn't take long to cheer him up. Sometimes I think he cries despite having no real reason. Then I gently thumb away the moisture beneath his eyes. And those pretty pink lips curve into a smile.

Sometimes he cries because he gets hurt. I'm gonna be a doctor just like my dad when I grow up, I tell him. Me too, Emery likes to say. You need to be smart, I caution him.

Seven-year-old boys should not suck their thumbs, but Emery does. The teacher frowns disapprovingly upon the act, but I grip him tighter and stare at her defiantly every time.

"He's mine," I introduce him to my mom, as though it were his name. She blinks, then smiles warmly at Emery. Emery is very shy and hides behind me with his arms around my hips.

"He's lovely," she says.