The Haunting of Sunshine Girl by Paige McKenzie

papers she always carries with her are completely soaked.
    â€œDid your umbrella break or something?” I ask, and Mom looks surprised by the question. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her umbrella, dry and folded up neatly.
    â€œI guess I forgot I had it,” she says absently.
    â€œHow could you forget in weather like this?” I ask, but Mom doesn’t answer. Instead, she shrugs off her raincoat, letting it fall on the floor. Her straight hair is twisted into a damp ponytail, and her pastel-colored scrubs are wet up to her knees. She kicks off her chunky black clogs, and they land with a thud on top of her raincoat as she makes her way into the kitchen.
    I shake my head. She usually rags on me for leaving a trail of clothes between the front door and my room when I get home. Maybe it’s just because it’s so wet and she didn’t want to hang it up, where it might . . . what? Dry?
    I shake my head. It’s the end of a long day, she’s tired, and she’s soaked, so dropping her coat on the floor is no big deal. Everyone gets lazy from time to time, even someone as neat and organized as Mom.
    I turn on all the lights in the kitchen. I’ve laid the photos out on the table by the window, the one with the little girl’s shadow smack in the center of the table, where she can’t miss it.
    â€œI have something to show you,” I begin.
    Mom shakes her head. “Can it wait? I haven’t even had anything to eat yet.”
    I don’t mention that I haven’t had dinner either; I’d been waiting for her to get home. Instead, I say, “I’ll make you something. Anything you want.” My voice comes out extra-eager. But it’s not dinner I’m excited about.
    â€œRight now I just want a hot bath and an even hotter cup of coffee.” Mom heads for the coffeemaker, her eyes half-closed.
    â€œCoffee? At this hour?”
    â€œYes, Sunshine. At this hour. I still have work to do, and I’ve been exhausted all day.”
    I sway backward as though I’ve just been shoved, away from her. I’m not sure she’s ever talked to me so curtly. I remind myself that it’s not her fault. She doesn’t know why she was so tired all day, and I do—we were up half the night, terrified.
    Mom fills her mug and heads for the table, the soaking wet papers dripping in her arms. She’s about to set them down on the table—it’s like she doesn’t even see the photos lying there—and I shout, “No!”
    Mom spins around. “What is it now?”
    I shake my head, imagining my photos stained with a ring of coffee from the bottom of her mug, spattered with water from the edges of her files. They’d be useless then. She’d be able to blame the shadows on the damage.
    â€œYou could have ruined my photos,” I say, genuinely irritated. She might have destroyed them. I mean, okay, she doesn’t know how important they are.
    â€œWhat?” Mom says, blinking as though she’s seeing them for the first time. “Oh, sorry, honey. I didn’t see them.”
    Okay, I know they’re black and white, and I know that evenwith all the lights on, this room is still pretty dim—which is pathetic, considering that it’s the best-lit room in the house, with a fairly tacky chandelier hanging down above the table—but come on! I mean, there’s a stack of photos there. How could she not see them?
    â€œMom, I know you’re tired and I know you’re busy, but I have something I really want to show you.” I walk over to her and take the papers from her, placing them gently on the counter behind us, where they can drip all they want without doing any harm.
    â€œLook,” I say, pointing at the photos. “It’ll only take a second.”
    â€œYou took some photos of the house. They’re great, honey. And it’s so nice to see you embracing our new home like this,