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Ray did that a lot. Put himself in front of the awkward and made it less sharp. When I was ten, I found a chair in the garage with yarn taped to the back, half braided.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Nothing. Don’t touch it.”
That night, Ray sat on my bed behind me, hands shaking.
“Hold still,” he muttered, trying to braid my hair.
It looked terrible. I thought my heart would explode.
“Those girls talk very fast.”
When puberty hit, he came into my room with a plastic bag and a red face.
“I bought… stuff,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “For when things happen.”
Pads, deodorant, cheap mascara.
“You watched YouTube,” I said.
He grimaced. “Those girls talk very fast.”
“You hear me? You’re not less.”
We didn’t have much money, but I never felt like a burden. He washed my hair in the kitchen sink, one hand under my neck, the other pouring water.
“It’s okay,” he’d murmur. “I got you.”
When I cried because I’d never dance or just stand in a crowd, he’d sit on my bed, jaw tight.
“You’re not less. You hear me? You’re not less.”
By my teens, it was clear there’d be no miracle.
Ray made that room a world.