Lia stood in the hallway holding a drawing of her family. Her parents rushed past her, eyes on a stack of baby blankets, without looking down.
She climbed onto a chair to reach the high shelf where the baby books lived. Her toes slipped on the smooth wood, and she jumped down with a loud thud.
The noise made the picture frames on the wall rattle, but no one heard her over the sound of unfolding laundry. She marched into the kitchen.
Lia placed her empty sippy cup directly in the center of the table with a loud clatter. Her father looked up from his phone call and gave a quick, distracted wave.
Lia stared at her reflection in the dark window. She wondered if they still remembered she existed.
A loud beep announced the oven timer. When her mother opened the door, a giant cloud of flour puffed out and coated Lia's nose.
Her mother froze, then laughed, wiping the white powder onto Lia's cheek. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, before her mother pulled Lia into a tight, floury hug.
Later, Lia sat on her father's lap while he read a book about a little seed growing into a big flower. Her mother tucked a blanket around all three of them.
She traced the petals with her finger, feeling the rough paper under her thumb. The room felt warm and full.
Lia leaned back against her father, her eyes growing heavy. She knew she was loved, even when the house was busy.