“Yeah.”
“That took one year.”
Then he pointed toward another table.
“And Tara’s sister painted their dog.”
The girl laughed.
“So?”
Ethan shrugged.
“They’re different.”
I stood a few feet away.
That sentence landed harder than almost anything he’d said onstage.
They’re different.
That was it.
The gifts had never been a competition.
I had made them one.
Because I made everything a competition.
Ranked.
Compared.
Measured.
I looked down at the two broken pieces of wooden ruler in the box.
Ethan had literally snapped my problem in half.
On the drive home, I held the wooden case on my lap.
Mom drove.
Ethan sat in the back eating curly fries.
Every few minutes, I opened the lid and read the words again.
SHE MATTERS BECAUSE SHE ALWAYS FINDS HER WAY BACK.
Eventually I turned around.
“Ethan?”
“What?”
“Who helped you write that?”
He stopped chewing.
“What?”
“The words inside the lid.”
