Dandelions

Margaret Buckley

Edited 30/10/2025

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Margaret hadn't planned on stopping by. She told herself she was just passing through the neighborhood, but she'd turned onto Buck's street anyway. When she let herself in, the smell met her first — a mix of coffee gone cold, lavender from the hallway diffuser, and something sugary that she guessed was Elle's shampoo.

She shut the door behind her and her scarf came off in one smooth motion, all practiced grace — the kind of habit you picked up after decades of country club entrances and forced smiles.

Phillip didn't know she was there. She hadn't told him because she didn't want the conversation that would follow. There'd been another brunch on her calendar. A table full of polite smiles, too-sweet coffee, and conversations that never went anywhere new. She'd stared at the invitation and thought, No, not today.

Water was running in the kitchen, the dryer turned somewhere down the hall, and over it all came Elle's voice—soft bursts of babble and the occasional clatter of toys against the floor. Margaret followed the sound without hurry, her steps quiet on the wood.

The living room carried signs of the morning that hadn't been tidied away: a mug on the coffee table, a blanket half-folded on the couch, one of Elle's blocks caught beneath a chair. The house felt busy in a comfortable way, and for once the clutter didn't bother her.

"G'anma!"

The small voice came from the playpen near the window.

Elle was standing, gripping the railing with both hands, her curls ruffled, and her clothes rumpled. When she saw Margaret, she grinned so wide it took up her whole face, and her arms reached out eagerly.

Margaret crossed the room and crouched beside her. "Come here, darling." Elle pushed forward and Margaret caught her easily, steadying her against her chest. "You've gotten heavier," she said, adjusting her hold. "What have they been feeding you?"

Elle made a stream of cheerful noise that probably meant nothing, then went straight for the necklace at Margaret's throat. Margaret sat down on the rug, settling cross-legged while the child explored, tugging at her sleeve and pressing a block against her arm.

Maddie had said Elle reminded her of Buck at that age. Margaret hadn't known what that looked like. Her memories of him were all brief—Buck tagging behind Maddie, waiting to be included, quiet even when he wanted attention. Elle was not quiet; she filled every room she was in.

Margaret's hand moved over her back without thought, tracing slow circles as Elle focused on stacking and toppling toys. The motion was old muscle memory, still intact after years of disuse.

Her own house had been quiet for too long. Even after her children had grown, she'd still set extra places at the table and folded shirts no one wore. She'd told herself it was habit, but the truth was she missed being needed. The loss hadn't come at once; it had arrived in small absences—a missed recital, a call she let go unanswered, the night Buck stopped asking for bedtime stories. By the time she noticed, there was nothing left to fix.

Elle yawned and leaned against her chest. Margaret shifted her hold, resting her chin lightly on the top of the girl's head. "Sleepy, huh?" she whispered.

The child mumbled something that might have been agreement, her voice muffled against Margaret's shoulder. Margaret stayed where she was, leaning back against the couch, listening to the even sound of her breathing.

"I'm sorry I wasn't better at this the first time," she said softly. "But I'm here now."

Elle made a small contented sound and went back to chewing on her toy, which made Margaret chuckle. A cabinet door closed in the kitchen. Footsteps followed, and when she looked up, Buck was standing there, hand resting against the doorway.