Amy peeked into the nursery. Two tiny booties hung on the wall. She counted her shoes in the hall — two, four, six, eight.
Amy poked one bootie. It wobbled. She turned and marched toward the kitchen, her stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
Amy marched into the kitchen. Dad was rocking the baby. She cleared her throat. 'Hi sweetie,' Dad said, then turned back to the wiggling baby.
Amy dragged her rabbit back to her room. She lined up all her old toys on the bed — the tin truck, the wind-up frog, the chipped teacup.
She tried winding the frog. It hops once and stops. She tried the truck. The wheels were stiff. She stared at the door.
That night, Amy crept into the kitchen for water. She heard her mum whispering to the baby. She pressed her cheek to the doorway frame.
Amy watched the small hands grab her mum's finger. The baby's mouth made a tiny smacking sound. Amy's fingers traced the grooves in the wood.
Late at night, Amy's mum came into her room and curled up on the edge of the bed. 'You're such a good big sister,' she whispered.
Her mum pressed a kiss to Amy's forehead. Amy's fingers found the hem of her mum's sleeve and held on.
The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the nightlight. Amy let go of the sleeve and closed her eyes.