Wednesday and Thursday roll by uneventfully. Each day, I have to willfully restrain myself from marching up to the twelfth floor of the office building to demand Milo’s presence—if only to save some face. The discovery that he’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about since our encounter in the gym on Tuesday might not be appealing to the man himself. Obsession doesn’t look good on anyone. We text sporadically, but I quickly learn that he’s not an excellent texter. Granted, I’m not sure I would be either if I had other people to text.

Dores used to be the only one. But I can’t text her anymore. Our conversation sits below my new one with Milo. I see it every time I go to respond to him. She used to send me a photo every day—whatever image best summarized how the day went. The last was a sunflower stalk bent nearly to the ground with the caption I’ve never seen one that wasn’t perfect before! I’d written back with a joke about the flower’s core strength. At the time, I’d thought the picture was meant to be comical.

It doesn’t feel that way anymore.

Milo’s slow response rate doesn’t bother me much. So he has a flaw—if you can call it that. Everyone does. I’m sure he has more that I’ll discover later if given the chance. I have plenty of my own, so it’s only fair that he does too. I’m just hoping the rest of his are as innocuous.

When Saturday rolls around, I almost forget that I’m babysitting Mariana until Aunt Evora calls to say that they’re on their way. I wonder briefly why Brian isn’t the one bringing her over, but I’m sure I’ll get the full story when they arrive. Brian’s probably having to pull a heavier workload now that Dores is gone. It’s good that Aunt Evora is so readily available to help out. She can be forceful with her opinions, but Brian is probably grateful for her presence. No doubt she also enjoys feeling needed, given how long she’s been living on her own.

They arrive around four, Aunt Evora with her auburn-dyed perm pulled back into a beret and Louis Vuitton bag slung over one shoulder. Mariana trails behind her wearing a Vickie Dancer backpack and a matching sweater. I wonder if she’s going to demand we watch an episode while she’s here. I’ve never seen a single frame of the cartoon, and wouldn’t have even recognized the character were it not for the yellow bubble letters across the top.

When I answer the door, Mariana gives me the biggest smile.

“Hi, Uncle Felix,” she says. She tries to pull away from my aunt, who tightens her grip on the girl’s hand.

“Hey, hey! Look who’s here! We’re going to have a lot of fun!” I say enthusiastically, which only makes Mariana pull harder.

“Remember what I said.”

“Yes, Auntie,” I reply, trying my best not to roll my eyes.

“Rosary before bed—you don’t want to compromise her soul.”

Compromise her soul. I don’t understand how the fuck someone can say that unironically, unless they’re in a horror movie or something, of course. I would laugh, but I know that if I do, I’ll be in trouble.

“Don’t let her see any…you know, well, she’s only six,” Aunt Evora says, letting go of the girl’s hand. Mariana darts into the condo, disappearing into the folds of my home. I might have been distracted by her movements were it not for my aunt’s latest accusation.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean she’s only six. Don’t expose her to that sort of thing.”

There’s a burst of anger within me before I feel my heart sink in my chest, a weary sadness settling inside my ribcage. “I’m not going to ‘expose’ her to anything,” I say softly.

“So you’ve hidden any pictures?”

Does she think I just have images of naked men engaging in lewd acts around my home? Does she think the mark of homosexuality is to submerge myself in a constant stream of male hedonism? I would be indignant if my innate shame hadn’t taken over. I want to argue, but there’s no use. I wouldn’t be able to change her mind. Instead, that this is her instinctual question makes me sad.

“Why would you bring her here if you’re concerned about what I’ll expose her to?”

“I’m not concerned,” Evora says, backtracking a little. Perhaps she realizes she’s said something insulting, but that might be giving her too much credit. “I just want to make sure.”

“There’s nothing inappropriate,” I say, not that an image of me happy or kissing another man should be deemed inappropriate. As it is, there are no such pictures. Aunt Evora has nothing to be worried about.

“Good. I’ll collect her from you at church tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” I mutter.

“I love you,” my aunt says, then calls through the open doorway. “Have fun, Mariana!”

“Bye bye, Auntie!” returns the childish voice.

“Don’t stay up late,” Aunt Evora says with a wide smile, then turns on her heel to leave. I watch her go, combing my mind for any possibly compromising pieces I might have overlooked in my home while chastising myself for giving credence to such a presumptuous issue. As if gay art is inherently bad for children. I can admit provocative imagery might be inappropriate for a six-year-old, but I don’t have any of that. Especially not on display. Even in my private residence that would mortify me.

I go inside.

Mariana waits in the center of the living room, staring expectantly as I enter. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that smile was hiding something.

“What are you smirking about?” I say.

“I’m not smirking, Uncle Felix,” Mariana replies, putting her hands on her hips. “Let’s play. Do you have any toys?”

“Uh…not really.” Shit. I knew this request would come up. I legitimately don’t own anything for her to play with—I knew that going into this scenario—but now that we’re actually here, I’m feeling woefully inadequate. “Auntie Evora said you would be bringing toys.”

“I didn’t bring too many,” she says, sitting down right on the spot. “I brought Vickie and Tina, but that’s it.”

“Vickie and Tina? Huh.” I’m not the biggest fan of playing dolls. Never have been. When we were kids, Dores would sometimes ask me to play Barbies with her, but I generally turned her down. Plus, I knew if I ever did get caught playing dolls with her, I’d get the belt from our father. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember playing with any toys. I mostly read or played videogames as a kid.

“Yeah, Vickie dances at a ballet studio and Tina works in a pet store, but they’re best friends,” Mariana explains. Wow. Vickie Dancer is a dancer? The name creativity is astounding. I’m really out of my element.

“I have some games,” I suggest in lieu of dolls. Mariana lifts her gaze to meet mine, one eyebrow cocked as if I can’t possibly have a game she’d be interested in playing. Some six-year-olds have all the attitude. “I’ve got checkers—have you ever played checkers?”

“Is that the one with the squares?”

“Yeah.”

“My dad played that with me before. It’s boring.” Well, la-di-da.

“We could watch a movie. I have DisneyAll.” At this she perks up, probably because I know Dores and Brian liked to restrict her screen time. I know this is a bit of a cop-out because I don’t want to play Vickie and Tina with her, but it’s not like I plan to watch movies the whole night. We’ll just watch until I can convince her to do something else. I know I’ve got a deck of cards somewhere—kids love Go Fish. Or at least, I know I did.

“Let’s do that,” she says, turning around to face the television.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Why don’t you move to the couch?”

“The floor is better.”

“But you’re too close to the television.” Yeah, I’m the fun uncle. “Come on. Up here.”

Reluctantly, she climbs onto the appropriate furniture.

“I’m going to get the oven going,” I say. “For pizza.”

“Pizza!” I’m in the green now. Every kid likes pizza, and I know she doesn’t get a lot of it. Hey, I’m only in charge of her for one night, and I’m her only uncle—it’s expected that I spoil her a bit. Even if I don’t have any toys for her to play with.

“Now what movie should I put on?”

~

Two musical adventures, a pepperoni pizza, and twelve games of Go Fish later, it’s time for bed. I take Mariana upstairs and get her to lay out her toiletries in my bathroom. I’m not sure how this part goes, having never spent the night at her house before. I look at the tiny Vickie Dancer toothbrush and the similarly themed tube of toothpaste for a long, questioning moment before locking eyes with my niece.

“So, do you know how to…?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Uncle Felix, I can brush my teeth. I’m not a baby.”

I laugh, shocked by her indignance. Hell, I don’t remember much from that age, but I do know I thought I was grown at six. “Alright, then, get to brushing,” I say.

She squirts a glob onto the bristles, humming some song from her favorite TV show. While she’s taking care of her dental hygiene, I go into my bedroom and grab some spare blankets from my closet. I know from waking up in the middle of the night on my couch how cold it can get downstairs. So I’m taking no chances. There are no spare pillows, I’m afraid, but I can use one from the sofa. By the time I’ve taken the blankets to the living room and returned, she’s finished.

“Uncle Felix?” she asks, staring at the portraits in the hallway outside my bedroom. Dammit, there’s one of Dores hanging there. I didn’t think to cover anything up or take them down. Is seeing her mom going to upset her? Death is an uncomfortable topic among adults; I don’t know what any of the rules are regarding children. I don’t know how much Brian or Evora have talked to her about it—about the fact that her mother’s never coming home. I don’t know how she’s been taking her mother’s absence either.

“Yes?”

“How come you don’t have a wife?”

The question momentarily stuns me. I’m not sure how to answer, torn between the truth and—well, anything else. Given that she’s young, I don’t believe she means the question maliciously at all, but it’s not something I’m prepared to answer.

“I—well…”

“Is it because you’re a gay?”

“What?”

“That’s what Auntie Evora says.”

“What does she say, exactly?” I can feel my heart sinking, that familiar mixture of frustration and hurt creeping into my bloodstream.

“That you’re not supposed to get married because you’re a gay. God doesn’t like that.”

I swallow, my mind buzzing. Clearly, Aunt Evora has gone to work on this child, implanting her archaic, bigoted ideas into Mariana’s brain. Had Dores known? Or is this a recent development now that she’s been spending more time with the girl?

“But she says if you try harder, you could stop and get a wife. Then you won’t be so alone.” All the fucked-up things that woman has taught this girl. Without realizing the turmoil she’s putting me through, Mariana walks past me and climbs into my bed, grabbing her Vickie Dancer doll from her backpack as she goes. She spends a moment playing with the doll’s hair, combing back the comically stiff strands with her bare fingers. “Why don’t you just stop, then? It doesn’t feel good to be lonely.”

I breathe deeply, reminding myself that it’s not my niece’s fault. She doesn’t know what she’s saying—she can only repeat the words of ignorant adults. Giving myself time to think, I walk over to the bed and sit on the corner by her feet.

“Mariana,” I begin, “do you know what ‘gay’ means?”

“It’s a sin,” she says.

“But do you know what it means?”

She shakes her head. Typical. Tell the girl it’s wrong without even explaining to her what you’re talking about.

“Well,” I say, “it’s when a boy likes another boy.”

Mariana scrunches her nose. “Ew, that’s gross.”

I inhale to respond, but she continues, cutting me off. “Boys are icky.”

I let out a relieved laugh. “I agree with you on that one,” I say, patting her feet through the blankets.

“Then why do you like them?” she asks.

I shrug. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“So that’s a sin?”

I sigh again, wondering how I’ve wound up teaching my niece life lessons about tolerance. The fear of inadequate playtime had made me nervous, but that has much less of an effect on her moral fiber than this conversation. “Look, some people, like Aunt Evora—they like to cling to ideas from the past. A long time ago, we used to think being gay was bad, but most people know now that it’s normal. Gay people can get married, just not in the church.”

“So she’s lying?”

Jesus fucking Christ, this girl is hitting the heavy topics. Part of me wishes we’d kept watching movies until she fell asleep.

“Well, no—she’s not lying,” I say, careful to choose my words wisely. Anything I say to her might get repeated to someone else—that someone could easily be Aunt Evora. “She believes that being gay is bad, but she just doesn’t realize that she’s wrong.”

“Someone should tell her then. I like you—I don’t think you’re bad, even if you are a gay.”

This makes me laugh. “If only it were so easy.”

Mariana looks pensively at the doll in her hands. The vacant smile on the painted face is supposed to be welcoming, but I find it somewhat creepy. The lifelessness of the eyes gives the illusion that Vickie is simply putting on an emotional display—or perhaps I’m reading too far into the expression of an inexpensive, mass-produced plaything.

“Good night,” I say. I lean forward and kiss her forehead, then reach to turn off the lamp.

“Wait!” she says. “Can you leave that on for a bit? Daddy usually lets me play in bed before sleeping.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, skeptical that this is an actual parenting technique.

“Yeah, it’s true. Every night for five whole minutes.”

Now I know she’s trying to pull a fast one. I laugh.

“Oh, yeah? Well, I guess if your daddy lets you,” I say, withdrawing my arm. We’ve bent a few rules thus far this evening; I can let her bend one more. As I stand, I realize that I’ve also conveniently forgotten to find my rosary—two rules, then. In the morning, I’ll have to request that we keep this missing detail to ourselves lest we incur the wrath of Auntie. Part of me says I should just get it now to avoid any possible admonishments tomorrow, but the majority of me doesn’t want to put in the effort. I don’t want to say the rosary, and I’m pretty sure Mariana’s not too worried about it either.

I leave the room to the sound of my niece talking to her Vickie doll. When does that behavior go from normal kid stuff to batshit crazy? Because she’s only six, I know she’s got a few more years before she crosses that threshold, but I can’t decide when the transition occurs. When they stop playing? And why, exactly? I mean, I get that most people agree to stop talking to their toys at some point. But is it because we lose our imaginations or because we realize what a waste of time it is to pretend something inanimate has life?

In the bathroom, I grab my own toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Mariana says to me from the bedroom. The warring sides of my heart melt a bit.

“Thanks. I don’t want to be either.” And perhaps I won’t—not if my date with Milo goes well tomorrow. My stomach does a little flip. I have a date tomorrow with another man.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m brushing my teeth,” I explain. Well, I will be once she stops asking me questions.

“That’s a funny thing to do.”

I’ve met plenty of strange adults in my time, but kids are a special type of strange. I laugh a bit, rolling my eyes. “Mariana, you were just in here doing the same thing. We all have to brush our teeth unless you want a bad visit to the dentist.”

“My dad is bigger than you.”

I frown, staring blankly into the eyes of my reflection as I listen to her speak. “I…uh—he is, but what does that have to do with—”

“I’d like it if you stopped doing that.” There’s fear in her voice now.

“Doing what? Brushing my teeth? Mariana, I—”

“Please, stop.”

“I have to brush my teeth.”

“My uncle Felix won’t like you touching his things.”

It feels like someone’s punched me in the gut. I set my toothbrush down on the edge of the sink and creep over to the doorway. From here, I have a partial view into my room—darkness combated by weak yellow lighting. I can see the shadow of Mariana’s shoulder cast against my bookshelves. She’s completely still, the only time she’s been still since arriving at my condo. I can’t see anyone else in the room with her. Trying my best not to make a sound, I tiptoe toward the open door.

“Please, don’t do that,” she whimpers.

I’m almost to my room, hand outstretched, reaching for the doorframe. How the fuck could an intruder get in here without me noticing? They would’ve had to break a window, or the lock on the front door. How in the fucking hell—my heart seems to be making up for lost beats, thrumming against the inside of my ribcage. I’m not prepared to take anybody on. If I can surprise the fucker, maybe I’ll have a chance. Maybe I can jump on them. I don’t know. The odds aren’t great, but it’ll be better than announcing myself.

I hold my breath.

“Please—NO!”

She screams and I throw myself into the room.

For a moment, wild shadows dart along the walls. Mariana’s frightened screech fills my ears as I search wide-eyed for the intruder. In the corner opposite me a book continues its descent to the ground, clattering to the floor.

Then everything stills.

Nobody’s there.

Mariana is crying beside me, her face scrunched up in terror, Vickie doll clutched to her chest. The sight of her is alarming, but I can’t rush to her side. Not yet. Not until I’m certain that we’re alone.

Which we appear to be.

“What happened?” I ask my niece, still combing the room with my eyes in case I missed something. Bookcases shoved against the walls, an IKEA dresser with the top drawer half open like always, a painting of a stormy harbor Dores once gave me. The closet door is open, but it usually is. Still, I peek around at the inside. No feet, so unless the intruder is hanging from the bar, it’s empty.

My heart begins to slow, even though I’m left with a sobbing six-year-old.

“Mariana, what happened?” I repeat.

She doesn’t seem to be able to respond, now hiccupping in addition to her tears. I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Was there someone in here?”

I inconspicuously eye the book on the floor as I take my seat. She couldn’t have possibly knocked it over—I would’ve seen. I was in the room when it fell—she wouldn’t have had time to rush back under the covers. Or perhaps she threw something? Is this all an odd, childish game? Unlikely. Not with the way she’s carrying on. Confused, I look back at her. Though her face is still scrunched and upset, she’s calmed enough to wipe at the tears on her cheeks.

“Was someone in here with you?” I ask. “A man?”

She shakes her head, lower lip protruding.

“No,” she says, “it was a monster.”