For the last month, she's wandered into the room at the top of the stairs and looked around.
"She's at school."
The next day:
"She's at school. For a long time."
"We're going to go get Megan in two days!"
The van is being cleaned out.
She puts her coat on. "Go?"
They arrive on campus, and I walk out to the van. She grins hugely.
"Megan megan megan megan..."
I get in the van and put my hand over the edge of her carseat. She rubs my fingers. Then she strokes my arm. That is not enough to express the extent of her affection, so she takes my hand and presses it against her face, rubbing her cheek against my palm.
"Megan megan megan..."
We are home. She curls up on Mom and Dad's bed, snuggling into her blanket. I flop down next to her and drape my arm over her body. Dad sits down next to us.
"Go," she says, shooing with her hand.
"Go where?" he asks.
"She has Megan, she doesn't need us," Mom responds.
It's 4:30 in the morning. I hear her crying, and my feet are on the floor before my brain consciously registers the noise. I take the 3 or 4 strides across the hall to her bed.
"I'm here, baby."
She stops crying. "Megan."
All is well with the world.