Chapter 3 - The Myth of Equivalency
The wooden floorboards creaked as the mother shifted her weight in the doorway.
The camera lens bobbed upward, reframing the shot to include the edge of the mattress.
"You have another pillow."
The mother’s voice was reasonable.
It was the fatal flaw of adult logic, assuming that identical objects hold identical value.
Maya’s body went completely stiff.
She slowly turned her head away from the baby.
She looked back into the dark glass of the camera lens.
Her lower lip pushed forward, flattening out into a hard, straight line.
She uncurled her right hand.
She pointed a single, tiny index finger toward a flat, standard-issue rectangular pillow sitting neglected at the foot of the bed.
It was white.
It was cotton.
It was completely devoid of the chaotic, cloud-like volume of the stolen pillow.
She dropped her hand.
"But that one is the special one."
The words were clipped.
She emphasized the word 'special' by stomping her left foot once.
The pink fluffy slipper made a dull, heavy thud against the wood.
She wasn't mourning the loss of a sleeping surface.
She was mourning the loss of an irreplaceable hierarchy.
The fluffy pillow was the crown; the flat pillow was just a floor mat.
The baby on the bed kicked one leg lazily in the air.
The cream fabric with the little stars rode up his calf.
He let out a short, bubbling sound from the back of his throat.
Maya’s eyes snapped toward the sound.
May you like
Her shoulders rose toward her ears, bunching up the pink fabric around her neck.
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