The Toys Were Never Mine

The first day of fall break landed on a Thursday. I told Grandma I was going into town with friends, then caught a bus into the city by myself.

I had barely reached the apartment complex where my parents lived when I saw Mom step outside holding a little girl's hand.

The girl couldn't have been more than seven or eight.

My face lit up. I opened my mouth to call out to Mom, but the little girl beat me to it.

"Mommy! Look, it stopped raining!"

Mom caught her before she could dart toward the street. "Maisie! There are cars everywhere. Stay beside me."

I stood frozen. I didn't notice the curb until I tripped over it and tumbled into the bushes, disappearing from their view.

The girl looked like Dad. She looked like Mom, too.

And Mom had called her Maisie.

Mara. Maisie.

Did I have a little sister?

When had my parents had another child? Why hadn't anyone told me?

I followed them in a daze. After about ten minutes, they entered a big shopping mall, and Mom took Maisie straight to Crispy Coop.

I hid in a corner outside the restaurant, watching through the glass and catching scraps of their conversation.

The kids' meal Mom bought Maisie came with a little toy. Maisie tore open the package, took one look, and pouted.

"This one again? I've gotten it, like, three times already."

Mom took the toy and dropped it into her purse. "All right, sweetheart. I'll get you something else."

I gripped the edge of the column beside me so hard that its rough corner dug into my fingers.

So that was it.

So many of the toys Mom brought me were duplicates. I'd always figured adults didn't watch cartoons, so she couldn't tell the characters apart or remember which ones she'd bought.

I'd never complained. A duplicate was still a present from Mom. It was twice as much love, I'd told myself.

But it wasn't.

Maisie got the toys first. Whatever she didn't want was passed down to me.

I watched Mom carefully pick something out of Maisie's burger before handing it over. Maisie abandoned half her chicken nuggets and drank only a couple of sips of soda. Mom didn't scold her. She just wiped her mouth with a gentle smile.

After lunch, they went next door to the toy store.

Mom emerged a little later carrying a huge pink box.

A Barbie set.

My friend Poppy had one that her parents brought home. It was so expensive that she'd only let me touch it once.

Mom hailed a cab, and she and Maisie drove away.

I sat on the steps outside the mall, my backpack clutched against my chest, until the sky started turning dark.

Then my old flip phone rang.

It was the girl who sat beside me at school, a transfer from the city.

"Mara, weren't you going to get the Thursday chicken special? It's getting late. Are you buying it or not? They might sell out."

The Thursday special.

I'd almost forgotten why I'd come in the first place.

Last summer, when Mom told me the food in Crispy Coop was too expensive, I'd started collecting bottles and cans to sell. I'd saved for nearly a year. My classmate had told me about a cheaper Thursday deal, and I'd planned to surprise Mom and Dad with a meal I bought myself.

All that time, they'd been coming here with a daughter I didn't even know existed. They'd probably eaten here dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.

"I still want it," I whispered. "Could you place the order for me?"

I followed the instructions she'd given me, read out my pickup number, and collected my food.

Just as I was about to eat, I had a sudden urge to call Mom.

"Hello? Mara?"

I asked how she was and made a little conversation. In the background, I heard a young girl's voice urging her to hurry.

When Mom began to sound impatient, I asked softly, "Mom, is Crispy Coop good? They advertise it on TV all the time."

She didn't hesitate. "Greasy, heavy, and disgusting. It isn't worth eating. Spend more time studying instead of calling me with silly questions. I'm working late, and I'm busy. Bye."

The call ended.

I picked up a piece of fried chicken and took a bite.

It wasn't greasy or disgusting. It smelled wonderful, and it tasted even better.

Then my tears began dripping onto the tray.

A young woman at the next table leaned over, concerned. "Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?"

I scrubbed my cheeks and gave her my brightest smile. "It's my first time eating Crispy Coop," I said. "I'm just really happy."