Free Philippa Fisher and the Dream-Maker's Daughter by Liz Kessler

upset, more like I was at the beginning. I just can’t cry — I haven’t cried since just after it happened. But it feels like the tears are still there; it’s like they’re kind of stuck inside me. Does that make sense?”
    I nodded. It did make sense. It explained what I’d seen in her eyes. A line of tears just behind her eyelids, like an army that wouldn’t advance but wouldn’t let you get past, either.
    Robyn shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you what my dad used to be like,” she said with a rueful laugh. “He was always smiling, like my mom. Just being around them made everything feel warm and safe. I never knew anything bad could happen. D’you know what I mean?”
    “Yeah,” I replied, glancing over at my parents. Mom had a piece of cake on her plate, and as I looked over, Dad pointed at something on the ceiling. The second Mom looked up, he stole a bite of her cake. Mom squealed and tickled him in reply, the pair of them giggling like kids. “I know exactly what you mean,” I said.
    Until this year, when Charlotte had moved away and Daisy had done her assignment and left, I’d never really known anything bad could happen, either. Anything that involved losing someone.
    “Dad’s just never been the same. It feels like he’s not quite there most of the time. He hardly notices the world around him, and he doesn’t care about things like he used to. He wanders around the place like a ghost, he dresses like a bum, he doesn’t wash his hair, and he hardly makes an effort with the customers. It’s like he’s given up on everything.”
    “Except you,” I said.
    “Well, yes, I guess. But everything else — it’s just a mess. The shop’s in chaos. I’ve even started trying to help with the accounts now. He doesn’t notice it all building up around him, and it worries me. It’s getting out of control.”
    “Can you talk to him about it?”
    Robyn shook her head. “He won’t. He’s so stubborn. He doesn’t go out, doesn’t see anyone socially. I’m the only person he talks to at all, and even then — well, there are certain things we never talk about.”
    “Your mom?”
    She nodded. “It’s like he just can’t. And neither can I. We both spend all our time pretending it’s not there, acting as though there’s nothing wrong. And yet I know it’s the only thing either of us ever really thinks about.”
    Robyn took a bite of her sandwich. “We both pretend life is OK; we act as though we’re coping, but I think both of us are surrounded by a black hole so big we can’t see beyond it. Sometimes I try. I ask him about Mom, or mention her name, or just want to look at photos or something. But he stops me. It’s as if he doesn’t dare even let me try to get across the blackness. I think he’s scared I’d fall into it and never get out.”
    I didn’t know what to say.
    “But lately, I’ve started to feel different again. I think it’s because it’s coming up to a year now. I’ve started having bad dreams again. Not as bad as before. Not yet, but I know they’re coming — and Dad does, too. They’ve been getting worse each night. That’s why he’s even more protective than usual at the moment.”
    Listening to her made me feel so sad, and I wished I could say something to make her feel better. I searched every corner of my brain for something. Anything.
    “I wish I could help,” I said feebly.
    Robyn twisted her mouth into an attempt at a smile. “Thanks,” she said. “But you can’t. No one can. My mom used to tell me a story about that. ‘The Boy and the Butterfly,’ it was called.”
    “Tell me,” I said, putting down my chips and folding my arms.
    “You want to hear the story?”
    I nodded.
    Robyn’s eyes went all dreamy and far away. Then she smiled. “OK. So, a young boy was running through a garden when he saw a tiny chrysalis on the path. He stopped to look at it and ended up watching it and waiting for hours.”
    “What was he