Archive of Our Own

One chilly afternoon, Henry stared out the window with a defeated look.

The sight of a certain old lady, parking her bike in their front yard gave Henry’s spine much more chill than the winter air seeping into the house.

“Mum! She’s here!” Henry shouted for his mum with a miserable tone.

The famous, “Don’t be horrid, Henry!” was yelled back at him, as Francesca walked into the room with her hands on her hips. But she walked up to the window and took a look herself.

Sure enough, the unmistakable figure of Great Aunt Greta stepped off from her bike, dropping her helmet into the empty sidecar.

Dressed in a long lilac coat and a hat that looked like it had eaten a whole feather duster, she hobbled toward the door with a massive handbag hanging from her arm.

Sticking out from the top of that bag? A bunch of wrapped presents.

Trouble wrapped in ribbons.

Henry sighed, knowing there’s no chance it’ll be anything he’d like.

“She’s only staying a few nights, Henry,” Francesca said, after hearing that very rude huff of breath. “Be polite.”

Henry didn’t answer, but his mum walked away anyway to open the door for her aunt.

Henry already knew how this Christmas story ended: Him opening up another pink hairbrush with unicorn prints, while Peter got a 1000-piece art set. (Not that Henry was interested in that stuff himself. But it’s the fact that Great Aunt Greta knew what Peter liked getting, even while she thought he was a teenager!)

After letting Great Aunt Greta in, and receiving the usual kiss on the cheek from her, they had her settle in the living room, and gently place all her gifts under the Christmas tree.

Aunt Greta declared that they were not allowed to open the gifts until midnight on Christmas Eve. “Or it’ll ruin the surprise!” she said cheerfully, setting them under the tree.

Henry already knew the surprise was going to be another gift he’d have to hide behind the radiator or “accidentally” donate to charity.

Well… one good thing about Great Aunt Greta visiting on Christmas, is that she lives by the “wait for midnight before a Christmas feast” tradition. So even if his mum hates the idea of him and Peter staying up late, she can’t deny Great Aunt Greta of how she wants to celebrate the holiday with all of them.

Aunt Greta was already sitting cozily on the cushion seat, setting all the yarn she had brought along with her and crocheting what looked like the same crocheted hair accessory Henry had been tossing into the back of his underwear drawer, every time he received one.

“Look, Henrietta! This one really matches your hair!” she chirped, holding up a pink hair rosette with way too many petals.

“Ugh! Flowers are for girl hair!” Henry protested for what had to be the billionth time. “I’m a boy!”

“Oh hush now, darling. No need to get dramatic! You’ll see the finished product soon.” Aunt Greta batted away the outburst, and continued with her little yarn project.

Trying to argue with Great Aunt Greta was like trying to reason with a talking cloud; way too high up the sky that all they do is pretend to hear what you’re saying.

Henry gave up and went back to sulking while watching TV, ignoring the way Peter giggled at him.

.•.•.

A little near a light dinner (that they chose to have so they’re not too hungry before a midnight feast)—Mum and Dad rushed out for a last-minute shopping trip.

“We forgot the brussel sprouts!” Francesca cried.

And Peter volunteered to go with them. Because, of course he did. Little toad.

Which meant Henry was stuck. Alone. With Aunt Greta.

He tried continuing his “quiet sulk” method. He figured if he sat on the armrest and didn’t move, she’d forget he existed.

But of course, she didn’t.

“Henrietta,” she said suddenly, peering over her knitting.

Henry slumped even more into the couch, “Oh…” he groaned under his breath. What does she want now?

“Yes, Great Aunt Greta?”

“Now that you’re a big girl… I think it’s time to be honest with you.” The elderly woman said.

Henry sat up a bit, and looked at her confused. “Hm?”

Then she continued, “I’m so terribly sorry… for all the girly things I’ve bought and made you…” Aunt Greta said, unusually serious. “I can tell by what you’re wearing and how you behave, that you’re more of a tomboy.”

The bottom of Henry’s eye twitched. “I’m not a tomboy, Aunt Greta. I’m a boy.”

She gave a kind, distracted little laugh, as if he’d just told her he was a dinosaur. “Of course, dear! But I don’t find anything wrong with tomboys, don’t worry about it!”

Whatever. Henry decided to just roll with it.

“Well… if you knew I wasn’t a girly girl…” he said through gritted teeth, while turning back to flip through the channels, “why do you still buy me such girly gifts?”

Great Aunt Greta set down the unfinished rosette and gave him the strangest answer he’d ever heard, “Because… your dear mummy was quite the brat when she was a little girly herself.”

Henry did a double take, “What?”

She nodded sagely, as if talking about the weather. “Little Fuming Francie was quite the piece of work, let me tell you.”

“Fuming Francie…? Wait—you mean Mum?” Henry sat up.

Aunt Greta nodded, “Oh yes. She wanted everything all her silly little school friends had. Dolls, dresses, the latest toy sets. My sister and her husband couldn’t afford those things, of course, so your grandparents made them with their own two hands!”

And then she told the tale.

A limited edition dollhouse? Grandpa bought some plywood and built one himself. While grandma stitched up the curtains and miniature cloth covers for furniture.

Expensive brand-name dresses? Grandma sewed replicas that looked nearly identical.

Red-bottomed shoes? Grandpa restitched a  cheaper pair with red felt just to look the closest to his daughter’s desired shoes.

Henry was stunned, “That sounds… pretty amazing, actually….”

The one thing he remembered that was made just for him was his go kart, his dad really put his heart and soul into making it.

But almost everything else, were gifts that clearly looked like Peter was on the giver’s mind rather than Henry.

Every other toy he had? They were things he had to beg his mum and dad for, but was told to work for it before he could earn it.

But here he is, hearing about how his mum demanded things, and getting them without any work?

Heh… What a slimy old hypocrite…

Henry focuses back on his great aunt, “So… mum just happily got everything she wants?”

Aunt Greta shook her head, “Francesca always thought someone would find out they were handmade. She cried about being seen with ‘cheap knockoffs,’ threw tantrums, and refused to use them…”

“She’d either push them off the table, throw it in the rubbish bin, or if she’s at her tamest—hide them in her kittens’ litter box.”

Henry’s jaw dropped, “She threw away  handmade gifts?”

“Mhm.” She hummed in confirmation. “And screamed over a pink dress that was bubblegum pink instead of fairy dust pink,”

Greta sighed, recalling a not so fun memory. “That. That was the final straw; the Little Mary Bo Peep doll incident....”

“Little Mary Bo Peep doll…?” Henry repeated.

Aunt Greta nodded, “Yes… That doll was the talk of your mummy’s school, for every little girl in there. Francesca had begged for one. And so… her parents made a nearly perfect replica. Actually, no. It was a perfect replica! From her golden curls tucked in a little shepherdess bonnet, down to her carefully stitched shoes.”

Henry leaned in, genuinely intrigued. “And… what happened?”

“She threw it at them.” A blunt answer.

“Mum did what!?” Henry’s eyes widened in pure, genuine shock.

A hum of disappointment escaped the elderly’s lips, “Yes… Unfortunately, that really is what she did.”

“Why?” —And was this still his mum they were talking about? Surely this had to be a different Francesca?

“As I’ve said… she noticed the shade of pink was not fairy dust pink, like the actual doll. Rather, it was bubblegum pink. That little trend-chaser threw a fit, saying that all her friends would see that her doll is a fake.” Aunt Greta answered.

“Oh… and just to mention, Henrietta. I did, in fact, buy the real doll. To surprise Francie, because I myself adore collecting original dolls. But…. After seeing that absolutely inappropriate tantrum, I decided to keep the doll with me and hid it away. That day proved to me that she didn’t deserve such a lovely gift.” She huffed, crossing her arms. Great Aunt Greta has never looked so grouchy before.

“Well… I was thinking of giving it to Ruby, but I know that poor girl would’ve woken up with no eyebrows again…. She’s no angel, but Francie has bullied her more than Ruby has teased her.”

Henry sat there, stunned.

“So now,” Greta said with a tiny grin, “though it pains me to give you, my lovely tomboyish grandniece, things you don’t care for—What better way to teach Francie a lesson, than to give her child all the very things she never appreciated and watch her own daughter be unappreciative of it?”

Henry blinked.

That’s why Aunt Greta kept giving him those lame girly gifts? Not because she didn’t know him… but because she knew what would make his mum squirm.

His mum… who was a brat?

All those years telling him to appreciate carrot cake that tasted like sadness… or to say thank you for embroidered socks with itchy lace… all while she used to throw away entire dollhouses?

What a fake!

He smirked to himself.

“Fake Francesca.”

Great Aunt Greta snickered, “Yes! Quite the faker she is today, isn’t she? You don’t know how many times I had to hold in a little giggle every time she scolded you for something so small compared to what she’s done.”

While they were still waiting for the rest of the family to return, Great Aunt Greta decided it was the perfect time to spend more quality time with her “favorite little grandniece.”

“Though… I promise to make up for every gift you clearly don’t like,” She said warmly, petting Henry’s hair, “I do want to help you embrace at least a small feminine side inside you. Even little tomboys can appreciate some girl time.”

Henry blinked.

Oh right.

He’s still a girl to her…

He stared at her soft wrinkled face, still full of that cheerfully senile warmth, and thought about that whole story she’d just told.

It still cracked him up.

And honestly? No one was here, right now. Just him and his seriously weird great aunt.

She managed to make skipping rope fun. What’s one more girls activity?

Alright. He’ll play along.

And that’s how Henry found himself hosting a tea party in his bedroom.

An entire mini floral table (plastic but regal)—that he hid away in the basement along with a real tea set he was also gifted, which he set atop the table—was in the center of his room. Aunt Greta had assembled it all within seconds.

Mr. Kill sat on one of the chairs. Aunt Greta sat on another chair, while Henry took one opposite to her. And every other chair was occupied by the some dolls he was previously given and had only opened up now.

Great Aunt Greta held out her cup as Henry blankly poured a cup of hot cocoa into it.

He supposed it was cool that Great Aunt Greta suggested cocoa since he didn’t like tea.

He told himself he’d never use these stupid girly things. He hated them.

But ignoring how princess-y everything looked—it felt practically the same as setting mugs of hot cocoa on top of a box he uses as a makeshift table, entertaining guests he has at the fort during meetings.

As awful as these gifts felt to him…. Henry can’t stop himself from realizing that Great Aunt Greta is one of the few people who actually thinks about him. Even if she thought he was a girl…. She really did think about him. Some way…

The origin story of his mum aside, she kinda did buy him dolls because she thought he’d like it—or at least “have a touch of feminine side” once in a while. Anyone else who bought him a doll would’ve done it to rile him up, and get him into trouble for complaining.

“Having fun, Henrietta?” Aunt Greta asked, taking a sip of her cocoa.

Henry shrugged, “I guess…? We’re just drinking cocoa. In a girly set up….. but mostly just drinking cocoa.”

“Yes… that is true… But, it’s still a pleasant way to spend quality time, right?” She asked.

Henry chuckled and then answered, “I guess…?”

“And…. While I promise to improve my gift giving skills… I just wanted to let you know that femininity doesn’t mean hosting tea parties by the books. I won’t force you to use these toys and set up again if you don’t want to, but to be clear…. You may use them however you wish. Ohoho! If you wanted to put soda in the tea pot I won’t be crossed at all… Well… I wouldn’t do it myself but, I wouldn’t shame you if you did.” Aunt Greta said.

“Um… I’ll keep that in mind…”

Aunt Greta continues, “Yes! And the same goes for the sweet little dollies I gave you. Children have a variety of imagination, dear. If little boys can create complex plots with their ‘action figures’, then who’s to say little girls can’t play outside of house games or fairytales with their dolls?”

“Does this have something to do with mum, again?” Henry asked, skeptical.

“A little. But it’s still advice for you.”

.•.•.

The front door creaked open downstairs. A gust of winter air and the rustle of shopping bags—that were definitely more than just brussel sprouts—signaled the return of the rest of the family.

“We’re home!” called Simon.

“Oh, Aunt Greta!” Francesca’s voice heaved out. “You won’t believe the queue for brussel sprouts!”

“Has Henry caused you any trouble?” Simon asked, as he hung both his and his wife’s coats, while Peter hung his coat on his own.

They peaked into the living room, and saw no Henry or Great Aunt Greta.

“Huh?” Francesca turned her head left and right to see they were nowhere at all in the room.

Simon checked the kitchen and found no one there.

Peter dropped the small grocery bags he was carrying and announced, “They’re probably upstairs. I’ll go check on them.”

Peter frolicked his way up the stairs and made a turn straight to Henry’s room.

Then silence.

Peter had just reached the door and froze near the open crack.

There, in the middle of his big brother’s room, was Henry.

Seated at a tea table.

Surrounded by dolls.

Pouring tea—Well…. cocoa actually. But it was in a flower printed tea pot.

Henry casually lifted his floral teacup to his lips, raised no pinkie (at least his lack of manners prove he’s still Henry), and took a sip from the cup like it was the most natural thing in the world, as Aunt Greta chatted away about something.

He stared Peter straight in the eyes.

Peter was silent for a moment, before giggling.

But the laugh immediately died down…

Because something about Henry’s complete lack of reaction made it even weird. There was no yelling. No chasing. No screaming “Get out of my room, worm!”

Henry just blinked slowly and nonchalantly kept drinking. Pretty passive.

Great Aunt Greta delicately topped off her cup, also entirely unbothered by the intrusion. “Would you like to join us, dear?” she asked Peter brightly.

Peter blinked.

Then shook his head, “Uh—no thank you.”

And backed away.

“B-But um… mum's about to prepare supper.”

Henry placed his teacup down and got up without tucking his chair in. “Come on, Aunt Greta.”

Greta gave a warm sigh and began to tuck in the lace napkins and fold the chairs with practiced grace.

As they headed out the room, Henry didn’t say a word to Peter.

Peter stared after them.

Still stunned.

.•.•.

Midnight finally arrived.

The tree glittered with tinsel. The lights blinked sleepily. The living room was a mix of wrapping paper, mismatched socks, and half-eaten mince pies.

Time for gift opening.

Francesca was up first.

She unwrapped her gift and gave a delighted little gasp. “Oh, Aunt Greta! A new salad bowl!”

A large ceramic bowl with painted leaves glistened under the lights.

“Oooh, it's hand-glazed,” she noted, “I can already picture it filled with fresh arugula.”

Henry snorted.

Francesca whipped her head toward him.

“Don’t be horrid, Henry,” she snapped without skipping a beat.

She didn’t even know why he snorted.

But Henry did. He was just loving the sight of Fake Francesca, swooning over a salad bowl. Oh, the irony. He could never see his mum the same way again.

“You’re welcome, dear Francie! I knew you just had to appreciate anything I gave you.” Aunt Greta said over-enthusiastically.

That comment flew over her head

Simon was next.

He got a deep navy sweater.

“Ooh! Thank you, Aunt Greta! Lovely cable knit!” he said warmly, patting the sweater against his chest before actually deciding to try it on.

Peter unwrapped a book titled “The Gentleman's Guide to Teen-hood: A Polite Lad’s Companion.”

Peter beamed, “Thank you, Great Aunt Greta! This will prepare me for… everything!”

Greta just smiled and patted his cheek.

Then came Henry’s turn.

Francesca shot him a glare that could turn milk sour. That all-too-familiar “be grateful or else” glare.

He didn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, he dug into the wrapping paper with both hands, tearing with the reckless energy of a raccoon on a sugar rush. —Though he knew the gift would be lame, the tearing of gift wrap is still very exciting.

The wrapping crinkled and fell away, revealing… a box.

It wasn’t new.

“Huh…?” Henry tried wiping the box with his sleeve to get a better look. “This box is so old looking….”

Francesca would've scolded him for that comment, but Henry wasn’t exactly wrong.

The corners were a little worn. There was a thick layer of attic dust all over it. But the clear plastic window across the front was still intact, and as Henry wiped it off, behind it…

A doll.

A beautifully preserved vintage doll.

Golden ringlets. Long lashes. Blush-pink cheeks. A delicate shepherd’s crook held in her curled fingers. Her fairy dust pink dress glimmered under the lights. The matching bonnet sat tilted just so on her head, framed by golden curls.

Henry looked at the label at the bottom of the box.

“Little Mary Bo Peep.”

This was the doll.

The doll Great Aunt Greta said his mum always wanted.

Henry slowly looked up to his Aunt Greta.

She winked at him.

Then Henry turned to see his mum.

Francesca was staring at it.

It was as if someone had unplugged and replugged her brain. Her face twitched once… twice… and then cycled through different emotional reboots like a malfunctioning computer.

“I-Is that…” Francesca started, her face contorting into wrinkles. “a Little Mary Bo Peep doll?”

Great Aunt Greta was practically glowing, “Yes! I found it in the back of my attic, and thought Henrietta should have it… It might’ve been untouched for—let’s say… 30 years?”

Francesca's eyes widened. “Thirty years ago?! I was a child back then! And that doll was trending!”

Simon and Peter both inched back into the couch cushions like they were witnessing a slow car crash.

Greta nodded sagely. “Well yes. But your parents handmade their own replica, didn’t they? I didn’t want to ruin such a beautiful moment of effort.”

Henry could feel the tension in the air thicken like jelly.

“Y-Yes… but—” Francesca started.

“Oh! And I remember just how passionate you got over the dress too!” Greta added giddily.

Francesca went silent.

Simon was clueless and mistook the silence for nostalgia. “That’s sweet.”

Peter just looked confused.

But Henry?

Henry was still holding the box.

He unlatched the tape, lifted the lid, and carefully removed the doll.

It was lighter than he expected. Soft to the touch. Even smelled faintly of lavender and cardboard.

Francesca flinched.

She didn’t move, per se—but her posture shifted every time he turned the doll over, like he was handling a grenade with a shaky pin. Her eyes kept twitching to its crook, its bonnet, its dress… that dreaded fairy dust pink.

Henry, meanwhile, studied it.

He couldn’t tell if it was the chaos his mum was clearly battling inside her skull, or the meaningful weight of the doll itself and how his Great Aunt Greta seems to think he deserves the doll more than his mum—but something about it made him… smile.

Not a sarcastic smirk.

Not a wicked grin.

Just… a small, genuine smile.

Maybe it was because it annoyed his mum. That definitely helped.

But maybe it wasn’t just that.

The doll was weirdly pretty. Fragile, sure. But not in a way that made him feel like breaking it. She looked like she'd survived something. Been kept safe. Kept secret.

It might’ve been meant as a revenge gift… but now that she was here, sitting in his lap, Henry realized something…..

He actually liked her.

“Thank you,” Henry said suddenly, his voice surprisingly sincere for once.

Great Aunt Greta smiled. “You're welcome, Henrietta.”

Henry stood up, still cradling the doll in his arms. “Can I be excused for the rest of the night?”

Before his parents could pipe up—especially Francesca, who opened her mouth ready to say something—Great Aunt Greta beat her to it.

“Oh, of course you can, darling. Christmas is exhausting, isn’t it?”

Peter watched in awkward silence as his brother casually walked past them, holding a pink vintage doll like it was a football trophy.

He disappeared up the stairs without a fuss.

Peter blinked.

“…Wait…” he said slowly. “Did anyone notice Henry didn’t open his other gifts…?”

Simon glanced toward the remaining pile on the floor. A few still had Henry’s name on them, bright bows and all, untouched.

Francesca frowned, her expression flickering somewhere between concern and confusion. “That is odd…”

Peter tilted his head.

Usually Henry would tear through all his gifts like a maniac. He just tosses whatever he doesn’t like and keeps going until he finds something cool.

Upstairs, Henry didn’t care about any of that.

He was back in his room, the tea party table still partially set up from earlier.

Mr. Kill still slouched in his chair, one of the ballerina dolls faceplanted into her empty cup.

He gently placed Little Mary Bo Peep in the empty chair across from him.

She sat there stiffly, her pristine bonnet framing her wide-eyed stare like she was judging the whole room.

Henry gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

Then he pushed her chair to tuck her in more securely into her seat, but he pushed a little too tightly which pressed the doll’s tummy against the table.

Click.

Without warning, a tiny giggle chirped from the doll’s chest.

“Heehee!”

Henry flinched. “—Wha?”

Another high-pitched giggle followed… and then…

“Heehee—HA—HaA—HaAAaaa…”

The voice glitched.

The pitch dropped. The cutesy laughter distorted into something slow, static-filled, and deep.

“ ha-ha-HA-HAAA… heehhhh… hehhh-HAAaaaah… ”

Henry’s eyes widened.

The doll’s head remained tilted at a disturbingly innocent angle as her voice box sputtered out one last garbled cackle that sounded like it came straight from a haunted movie.

He sat frozen for a second, cup mid-air.

“…Okay, what the heck?”

Henry picked up Bo Peep and gently pressed her belly again.

He almost flinched when the exact same gargly laughter came out.

“ ha-ha-HA-HAAA… heehhhh… hehhh-HAAaaaah… ”

The batteries must be messed up. Probably corroded after thirty years of silence.

He looked down at her again.

Cute face and evil laugh.

Henry grinned a little.

“Cool! A real life demon doll!”

Since Great Aunt Greta was staying the night—and possibly for as long as her holiday spirit would allow—she had decided, quite cheerfully, to take charge of a few house rules.

“There’s no school tomorrow, so the boys may stay up as late as they want! Within reason, of course. Let’s say… 3am is the latest, hmm?”

Peter’s mouth hung open with joy. He immediately sprinted up to his room with his new book in hand.

Simon and Francesca settled on the couch for a round of late-night films and small snacking. Something classic and long enough to lull them into a sleepy daze. Great Aunt Greta nestled into a cushion chair with a magazine in her lap.

But something… was off.

Francesca couldn’t put her finger on it right away.

Then it hit her.

Henry.

He hadn’t pulled anything since he'd excused himself. No pranks, no loud games, no rock music…

He was… quiet.

Too quiet.

And that made Francesca fidget.

Her brain spiraled immediately into worst-case scenarios.

What if he was dissecting the doll?! What if he was practicing surgery on her like she was a lab rat! What if he’d snuck out into the garden and buried the precious thing in the mud next to the compost heap!

She bit her lip.

She had to know!

“I’m just going to pop upstairs for a moment…” She announced as casually as she could manage, brushing crumbs off her lap and rising from the couch.

Simon barely nodded, already half-asleep.

Great Aunt Greta didn’t even look up.

She knew what her niece was thinking and where she was going. But she’ll intervene when she has to.

Francesca crept up the stairs like a woman in a horror film.

She paused just outside Henry’s door.

The hallway light was on, and through a small, uneven gap in the door, she peered in.

And what she saw made her relieved… and then, incredibly confused.

Henry had a whole tea party set in the middle of his room. Why? She didn't know….

And there she was.

Little Mary Bo Peep.

Sitting upright in the central chair. Pristine. Unharmed. Bonnet flawless. Crook still daintily in hand. Not one golden curl out of place.

Francesca exhaled.

Okay. Okay… she’s safe.

But… wait.

What was that other thing Henry was adding to the table?

She squinted.

It was…

That ugly wolf plushie. The one with matted fur and one ear permanently flattened. The one Henry had once lovingly named “Mr. Razor”.

Henry had positioned the ugly wolf next to Bo Peep.

After setting the two together, Henry picked up his teddy bear. “Okay, Mr. Kill. I know we both don’t like being in fancy places, but this is more than just a restaurant setting!”

He attempted to put sunglasses on Mr. Kill. “This is a spy movie, where we’re guarding Mr. Razor on his date with Mary! He can’t act like a wolf the whole night, or Mary won’t trust him again. So it’s up to us to fight the enemy off, so he doesn’t have to.”

Francesca's jaw dropped.

What was this—some twisted monster romance fanfiction?!

Francesca’s eye twitched.

This was not how the Little Mary Bo Peep story went!

In her show, she was as elegant as a princess! She was supposed to marry a handsome shepherd heir or a farm-owning nobleman with wool interests—not some flea-ridden fairytale reject with commitment issues!

Francesca’s chest tightened.

If she had gotten that doll… she would have taken care of her. Cleaned her. Respected her. Displayed her proudly, not shoved her into some twisted Beauty and the Beast reenactment with a permanent Beast!

She didn’t even register herself opening the door.

The old hinges creaked.

Henry looked up from across the table, one hand still holding Mr. Kill by the neck, the other still trying to make the glasses cooperate.

“Mum…? What are you doing here?”

Francesca, as stiffly as possible, stepped inside. She left the door wide open like it was a peace offering—or perhaps a safeguard.

Without asking, she crossed the room and slowly, carefully, knelt down beside the table.

There were no chairs left. So she sat awkwardly on the floor.

Henry stared at her.

“…Uh,” he said.

Francesca smoothed out her sweater, cleared her throat, and folded her hands in her lap.

“I just came to… see if you needed anything.” she said. “But I suppose you’re… occupied.”

Henry groaned before asking, “What did I do now?”

“N-Nothing! Nothing! It’s just….” Her eyes flicked between the doll… and then her son.

Then, with forced calm, she replied, “Do you think…. I could join in your little game?”

Francesca didn’t know what came over her.

There she was, a fully grown woman kneeling cross-legged on her son’s bedroom floor, staring longingly at a thirty-year-old doll currently being fake-courted by a wolf named a shaving tool.

It was immature.

It was ridiculous.

But all she could think about was the doll.

That doll.

That dainty little shepherdess with the rosy cheeks and perfect bonnet. The doll that should’ve been hers three decades ago. The one she would’ve loved and protected and never let fall into the clutches of a grubby little horrid boy like—She shook her head.

“If you want….” She found herself saying slowly, “I could… help with your little make-believe story.”

Henry looked at her with a deadpan face. An eyebrow raised.

“I mean…” She continued, feigning calm, “I could be an extra voice. Like… play one of the other characters? So you don’t have to handle all three of them…”

Henry narrowed his eyes.

Aunt Greta wasn’t kidding. Mum was being a total brat, trying to worm her way into holding the doll.

Well, Henry wasn’t going to give that satisfaction to her.

How many gifts did she deny him or refuse to buy because she didn’t think he deserved it for his ‘horrid behavior’?

But at least HE made a fuss over stuff he never showed any signs of liking in the first place! Because no one seemed to care what he liked! His mum had apparently gotten almost everything she wanted and spat on it!

She always taught him that being pushy won’t get him what he wants. And she’s being pushy right now.

Which is why Henry decided—“Sure, I guess.” Shrugging, he put Mr. Kill down and reached over to where the ‘couple’ was seated.

He was sure his mum tensed in anticipation, resisting the urge to grab the doll herself.

But picked up and handed his mum Mr. Razor….

“Here. You can be him.”

Francesca froze, fingers delicately grasping the matted stuffed wolf like it was made of radioactive socks. “…You want me to be this thing?”

“Yeah,” Henry said plainly, going back to adjusting Mary’s crook.

Francesca gave a stiff chuckle. “Right, of course… adorable…”

She tried to keep her voice light as she turned the plush over in her hands, fluffing his droopy ear with visible discomfort. “Well, I don’t really know how to do a monster voice.”

She took notice that Henry tiredly looked at the wall, instead of her. A habit he seemed to have developed whenever he was unamused or distasteful over something.

But she continued anyway, “But maybe I could give Mary a sweet accent! A bit of lady charm!”

Henry didn’t blink.

“No thanks…” He said flatly. “I have this thing about not sharing stuff I just got.”

His tone was calm. No edge. Just matter-of-fact.

“I’d like to keep Mary untouched by anyone else for now.”

Francesca’s eye twitched. “…Untouched.”

“Yeah.” Henry nodded. “You know, just for a bit? Personal boundary.”

Francesca clenched Mr. Razor in her hands trying not to crush the poor wolf’s snout. “Of course. Totally understandable.”

There was a long, awkward pause as Henry went to grab some tape in his drawer to stick the sunglasses on Mr. Kill instead.

Francesca sat still, choking the stuffed wolf with her grip on his neck, as she still stared at the doll.

Filled with temptation, she lifted a hand and slowly reached over to the little Bo Peep doll, while her son was turned around.

“Mum…” Henry warily says, not even looking.

Francesca flinched, before steering her hands towards the tea pot. “What? I just wanted some tea.”

“That’s cocoa.”

“Right, right… cocoa…” She anxiously poured herself a cup and drank it up, to deflect any suspicions.

She cleared her throat before speaking, “So…. how do you want this little story to go, Henry?”

Halfway through the roleplay, they were already having problems.

Every 10 seconds or so, Henry had to tell his mum to stick to the story, because she kept constantly twisting it.

Francesca wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing.

Well… she knew she was manipulating the story—But excuse her! In the very show she used to watch as a little girl, Little Mary Bo Peep did NOT get into a relationship with a smelly wolf.

The real Bo Peep hated wolves. That’s why her husband in the show had built high fences that prevented such creatures from reaching her beloved herd. Because wolves eat sheep.

“Mum!” Henry immediately scowled. “Take the sheep out of his mouth! Mr. Razor doesn’t eat lamb!”

He pointed at the cotton ball she was chomping between the wolf’s teeth.

Francesca blinked. “Oh… sorry…” She said with a nervous giggle. “I just thought it added tension.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “He’s not supposed to be evil.”

“Oh, well… I just thought it would be interesting for Mr. Razor to be a ‘twist-villain’…” Francesca suggested.

“It’s not a twist-villain, if he looks villainous already, mum!” Henry argued back.

“Soooo…. You agree he looks more like a villain?” Francesca pushed a little more with a sheepish grin.

Then Henry looked at his mum, a fist angrily gripping Mr. Kill in one arm, while the other fist did the same to Bo Peep. “What is your problem?!”

Francesca looked up, startled. “What? I don’t have a problem—”

Henry dropped Bo Peep and Mr. Kill back down on their chairs and stood up. “Yes you do! You keep trying to mess with my story!”

“I just—!” She stammered, flustered. But she stood up too. “I like traditional stories! I think wolves should stay as wolves. Not heroes. And little ladies like Mary Bo Peep don’t… mingle with ugly monsters.”

Henry narrowed his eyes.

“There’s no rule book in story writing.” He snapped, “or how to play with dolls!”

“Oh don’t be horrid, Henry!” Francesca huffed.

Henry actually took a step back, baffled.

He was horrid? He was the horrid one?

So what if he wanted his new doll to date his weird ugly wolf? This was his doll. And as ridiculous as that sounded, it was true. His doll!

And the more his mum wants to take control of it and how he wants to play, the more he actually feels grateful with how Aunt Greta sees him more deserving of Bo Peep than her.

“Take your own advice and stop being so horrid yourself, mum!” Henry yelled back at her, before reaching over to grab his stuffed wolf. “I didn’t watch whatever oldies show she came from. And even if I did, who says I have to follow the actual story? Thousands of kids have the same toy, but make their own ideas out of them! If you don’t like my version of Bo Peep’s story, then just leave! I can play three characters by myself!”

Henry was about to pull him back, but then his mum tightened her grip. “Mum, let go!”

Francesca continued to pull on the wolf, her teeth gritting as she stubbornly fought with her son. “N-Now! Let’s not be so grouchy, Henry! It’s not very polite to kick your mum out, when she just wants to play with you!”

“It’s not very polite to ruin someone’s story either!” Henry did not stop pulling on the stuffed toy. 

Francesca's voice got more aggressive as she tugged harder, “Give me back Mr. Razor! I promise to stay in character this time! —Ooor… you could let me handle Mary? I can play a shepherdess better anyway!”

“No way! Not in a million years!”

They continued to tug as they almost threw themselves off balance with the back and forth rocking.

At some point, Francesca tugged too hard that Henry bumped against the table.

The entire table rattled, but thankfully none of the breakable items fell off.

The Bo Peep doll however, was knocked off her chair and fell to the ground.

Both stopped their tug of war and looked down and gasped.

Fortunately, while her bonnet and crook fell off, there was no actual damage.

Francesca immediately let go of the wolf, leaving Henry to tumble backwards, and rushed towards the doll. “Don’t worry, I’ve got her!”

“Mum, no!” Henry struggles to pick himself back up before lunging after his mum, but she was too fast.

She snatched the doll up like a hawk capturing a mouse and held her above Henry’s reach.

“I’m just fixing her bonnet!” Francesca insisted, turning away from him, holding the doll high like a toddler teasing her brother.

Henry jumped, trying to at least grab her leg, but Francesca turned her back further.

“No you’re not! Her bonnet’s on the ground!”

“Well why don’t you go pick it up while I fix her hair!”

“Give her back!”

They were making quite the racket.

Eventually everyone approached the noisy room, to check what was going on.

Simon appeared first, looking concerned and sleepy. “What’s going on, in here?” He asked after yawning.

Both Henry and Francesca stopped fussing, and turned their heads to the door.

Seconds later, Great Aunt Greta stepped into the room with the most serious look her face has ever made. “Francesca, why is Henrietta screaming?”

Peter poked his head around the doorframe, still clutching his book. “Is everything alright…?”

Henry didn’t hesitate.

He pointed up at his mum, while looking straight at everyone. Especially his great aunt.

“Mum won’t give me Bo Peep!” he blurted, the sentence leaving his mouth faster than he ever thought he’d say it.

He kept his face angry, but his cheeks did burn in embarrassment.

Francesca flushed red as well. “I—I was just fixing the bonnet! And trying to show Henry the proper way to play with her. He’s making up some messy fairytale.”

Simon blinked, a little more awake from the outburst.

He awkwardly grinned, as his eyes turned to the left. “Well… I mean, as surprised as I am that Henry’s even playing with that doll…” He scratched his head as he continued, “Is there really a ‘proper’ way to play with one?”

He chuckled at a memory. “When I was six, I had a cousin who’d pretend her baby doll had a disease and had to be rushed to hospital every five minutes. Even girls don’t have ‘normal’ doll time.”

“Oh, yes!” Aunt Greta chimed in, stepping forward. “What’s the problem if Henrietta wants to play with her doll her way? She’s not yours, after all.”

Her voice was warm, but there was a tone beneath it. A quiet firmness. A line being drawn.

Francesca stood still, the doll still in her hands.

Francesca stammered, “But… um… but I—”

Aunt Greta stepped forward and, with gentle but undeniable authority, took the doll from her hands.

“There there, darling.” She said as she handed Mary back to Henry. “She’s back with you again.”

Henry looked up at her, as she patted his hair softly, like she’d done earlier.

Henry adjusted his hold on the doll and turned to get the bonnet and crook.

Simon walked up to his wife and gently pushed her by the shoulders. “Come on, dear. You’re probably tired. Let’s get some sleep.”

Francesca allowed herself to be guided toward the door. She glanced back, her eyes locked on the doll in Henry’s arms.

She didn’t say anything.

But she stared.

It just wasn’t fair!

She needed to be able to hold that doll again!

.•.•.

Christmas morning arrived with gentle clinks of breakfast plates, steaming tea cups, the smell of gross vegetable sandwiches—and Aunt Greta dressed in full wool tweed, quickly finishing through her breakfast.

She downed the last drops of her tea before clapping her hands together with purpose.

“Right then! Peter! Henrietta! Christmas is no excuse to sit around like lifeless jelly. We’re going out.”

Francesca blinked, immediately tearing her gaze away from the crossword she was distracting herself with. “Oh? Where are you taking the kids?”

“Oh, somewhere festive!” Greta said vaguely. “Markets, a little cocoa shop, perhaps a toy museum if it's open. You boys need fresh holiday air.”

Peter practically flew to get dressed.

Henry, though still groggy from staying up late last night, agreed once Aunt Greta mentioned a toy museum.

While Aunt Greta and the boys got dressed, Francesca and Simon chose to stay behind, naturally. Francesca very insistently said she needed to clean up the kitchen.

And for a while, she did.

She continued to do the chores while the boys were putting their shoes on. She took her time, keeping her pace slow and quiet so she could hear and listen to the three as they finally went out the door.

She washed the plates in slow, idle circles, her hands lingering under warm water as her ears stayed open, patiently waiting for footsteps to fade from the doorway.

Once she was sure there was no sound of footsteps returning—and that her husband was still sound asleep on the couch from last night—she turned off the tap.

Paused.

Dried her hands on the dish towel.

And crept upstairs like a child sneaking downstairs to snoop at their presents. All the way up to Henry’s room.

Henry’s room was still dim, lit only by weak daylight peeking through the blinds. His bed was unmade, his blanket halfway on the floor.

But there she was.

Nestled on his pillows.

Little Mary Bo Peep. Next to Mr. Kill.

Francesca’s breath caught in her throat.

The doll sat propped beside the ragged teddy. Francesca didn’t know whether to be baffled or concerned with her horrid son’s wellbeing.

He actually slept with her there? Next to him?

She stepped closer.

Her heart picked up a little.

She just wanted to… hold her. Touch her soft curls. Look at her properly.

Francesca reached forward and picked her up.

But not even a second later—

SLAM!

The door burst open.

“I forgot my gloves!” Henry’s voice rang out, shouting behind him before actually turning to see the intruder in his room.

They both froze.

Henry and Francesca stared at each other across the room. Her hands shaking as she was caught with the doll again.

Henry’s eyes wide.

The silence dragged for three… four… five painfully long seconds.

Henry marched forward, his jaw set.

Without breaking eye contact, he snatched Bo Peep out of his mum’s hand and hid it behind his back with both hands.

“What are you doing in my room?” He snapped.

Francesca opened her mouth. “I was just….” Her eyes darted, searching for an excuse. That’s when she noticed the tea table was gone.

She pointed, grasping for words. “I—I was just checking if your table was clean! The tea party! It’s gone, so I thought maybe—”

“I moved it to my fort,” Henry said flatly. “It was cramming up my room.”

And without another word, he stormed out.

Doll clutched tight in his arms.

“Darn.” Was all Francesca could say, clenching both her fists.

Francesca waited.

Not with patience. Not really.

She paced the kitchen with a cloth in her hand, wiping the same already-clean counter. She glanced at the clock. Checked the door. Tapped her foot.

Surely, Henry wouldn’t have brought the doll outside. Not even he would carry around something so delicate on a chilly walk with Peter and Great Aunt Greta. —Plus, as weirdly protective he turned out to be over that doll, he definitely wouldn't sacrifice his dignity by carrying out in the streets.

He had to have left her behind. Somewhere in this house. Hidden from her reach.

Francesca waited until the front door had been shut for several full minutes, and her husband who was still knocked out from whatever document he played for them last night..

She went to search again. Her heart raced like a teenage girl sneaking out to a concert, as she slipped out from the kitchen.

She searched everywhere.

She re-checked in Henry’s room again, hoping he just hid her somewhere like the closets, under his bed, even in his underpants drawer—though a doll that big definitely wouldn't fit in there.

Then she went through every cupboard in the house, the washing machine (just in case), and even the bathtub.

Nothing.

Then it hit her.

Her eyes lit up with gleeful madness. “Eureka! That’s it!”

The fort.

If the tea set was moved there, then so was Mary!

Francesca darted through the house and burst into the backyard, nearly tripping over her own slippers. She swept past the purple curtains that framed Henry’s makeshift hideout.

Inside, it was… oddly cozy. She doesn't enter the fort often, and when she does she's more focused on the crumbs Henry leaves all over the junkyard furniture he set in here. To think he built this with his father was pretty impressive—though it wouldn’t compare to Moody Margaret’s treehouse. Francesca always wanted one. She’d paint it pink and decorate it with flowers. But her parents had said it was the one thing they couldn’t give her. Typical.

They opted for rearranging and “girly-fying” the attic instead. Oh, but it just wasn’t the same as a treehouse!

In the center of the fort, was the little tea party. Looks like Henry wasn’t lying about that one.

But no Mary.

She bit her lip and searched. Checking under the tea table, lifting the makeshift furniture (which were mostly boxes). Peeked under the couch, before kneeling up on it to peak behind the couch. But, no luck…..

Francesca just about gave up, plopped down onto the couch.

And that’s when she felt something….

The two-seater couch beneath her, it moved. Not in a way where the cushions just didn't fit well. It moved like it could separate whole. Francesca got off to inspect the seat; it was a lid.

She pulled it open with trembling fingers.

And there she was.

Little Mary Bo Peep, wrapped carefully in a soft old towel. Bundled like a baby. Her cheeks rosy, her golden ringlets untouched.

Francesca gasped—genuinely gasped—and scooped her out like she was rescuing an abandoned kitten.

She closed the couch lid and sat down, holding Mary close.

She unwrapped her carefully, ran her fingers through her curls, straightened her bonnet, brushed off invisible specks of dust.

And smiled.

A soft, wistful, frighteningly serene smile.

“Thirty years in a dusty attic? You were supposed to be mine, then.” Francesca whispered. “I cried for you. I wanted you. I deserved you.”

She brushed the doll’s hair with her fingers again, “So pretty! As old as you are, you are still quite the popular collectible.”

Feeling years younger with her dream doll finally in her hands, she hugged it.

More tenderly than she’d ever held a newborn.

Then quick footsteps came, followed by the curtains rustling open.

“Hey, Bogey Brain—”

“Ah!” Francesca spun around to meet the person who had just barged in, squeezing Bo Peep tightly against her.

The tight hold around the doll’s torso activated the voice box once more.

It let out a low, broken “Hee hee hee—HRAHHHRhhhhhkkk—!”

Francesca snapped her head back to Bo Peep, double checking if she had heard the noise correctly.

The doll still laughed… A distorted, glitched laugh like a possessed clown caught in a blender. “Hahaha herrhrrrkkk—“

Francesca screamed.

Startled beyond sense, she tossed Bo Peep into the air with a horrified yelp.

The doll landed behind the couch with a soft thud.

Francesca turned, pale and disoriented.

What in bloody blazes was that?

“Wh-What was—Oh! Margaret!” She stammered, as she finally found focus on the surprise guest.

Standing at the entrance to the fort, Margaret sent Francesca a questioning look. “You okay, Henry’s mum?”

“I’m fine!” Francesca said far too quickly, dusting off her clothes out of nervous habit, pretending she hadn’t just screamed at a toy.

Margaret peeked past her and saw the girly set up. “Are you having a bunch of girl relatives over or something?”

“What…? Oh! No, no we’re not.” Francesca answered. “That’s Henry’s tea set.”

Margaret raised a brow.

Francesca let out a sigh. “Long story...”

Margaret proceeded to ask, “And the doll you were coddling just now?”

“Oh that’s also Henry’s…. Unfortunately…” She said, more bitter than she planned.

“I’m sorry—What?” Margaret snorted, trying not to laugh (just yet), amused but still unsure if she heard the woman properly.

Not bothering to reply to Margaret, Francesca eyes going wide again.

The doll.

Her stomach dropped.

She spun around and looked behind the couch, and spotted Bo Peep squashed in the small space.

She reached to pull her out—

RIIIIIP…!

A slow, sickening tear echoed in the silence. But Francesca yanked harder.

Bo Peep came loose—but not in exactly in one piece.

Francesca stared in horror.

The doll’s delicate pink sleeve had torn halfway off. Her arm dangled by a thread—thin, fraying stitching exposed like an open wound.

Francesca’s breath caught in her throat.

Her fingers trembled. “…No…” She whispered under her breath.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Her mouth went dry. Her palms were sweaty. And her guilt was flowing in faster than she wanted it to come.

She clutched the wounded doll in both hands, staring at the half-detached arm like it had personally accused her of treason. Her breath came short and fast.

“Okay. Okay. OKAY. —I can fix this!” She knows how to sew. She’d stitched Peter’s polo shirts before. She’d mended socks! She could fix a doll’s flimsy little seam!

She just had to stay calm.

Francesca turned and made her way toward the low tea table. She needed a flat surface, decent lighting, and —“AAGH!”

Her foot stepped directly onto a stray rubber ball and she toppled forward with a loud yelp.

In her scramble to catch herself, Bo Peep slipped from her hands again and crashed onto the tea table in a loud, chocolatey splash.

The teapot, though was thankfully not broken, had tipped over onto the doll and stained her fabric with cocoa.

Francesca, still planted on the ground, stared in horror as Bo Peep’s pristine fabric darkened with sickly brown stains. Her dress soaked. Her bonnet dampened. The colors had made it look like the pretty little shepherdess fell into a mud puddle.

She let out a strangled sound that was half-sob, half-squeak.

No. No. No!

Margaret, still standing nearby, blinked at her with a half-frozen expression. “…Are you sure you're okay?”

“I’m fine!” Francesca shrieked, scrambling upright.

She looked hysterical.

Margaret spun around and pushed the curtains open again. “Riiight. Well…. I’ll just… get my board game later. Bye.” She backed out of the fort faster than someone leaving a crime scene.

She didn’t notice that her bracelet had slipped off and quietly landed in the grass, next to the couch leg.

Francesca didn’t bother acknowledging her.

Left alone again, Francesca stared at the now cocoa-stained doll in her hands. Bo Peep’s smile still painted bright, but her hair was damp and disheveled. Her arm still hung by a few loose threads.

Francesca couldn’t look away.

She wanted to cry.

What did she DO?!

With trembling hands, she scooped the doll back up and stumbled toward the two-seater couch.

She flung open the seat lid and practically shoved Bo Peep inside. Not caring to rewrap her in the protective blanket.

She slammed the seat shut, stood frozen in place… and then bolted for the house.

There was no time left.

She had to act normal.

Pretend nothing happened.

So she rushed to the kitchen.

And started preparing lunch.

As if she hadn’t just committed doll manslaughter on the very toy her son did a better job at taking care of than her…

The three finally returned just as the sun hid behind the clouds again.

Simon was finally awake and greeted them all as they came through the door.

Francesca heard Henry’s distant voice replying to his dad, before walking into the kitchen, saying a half-hearted ‘hello’ to his mum, and then going straight out the backdoor.

She stiffened.

No. Stay calm. Act normal. Pretend you’re slicing celery. Just slicing. Not guilty at all!

Three seconds later….

“AAAAAAGHHHHH!!”

The scream tore through the house.

Everyone jumped.

Peter dropped the forks and spoons he was supposed to lay on the table.

Simon knocked over the chair he was sitting on.

Aunt Greta moved like she had the knees of a twenty-year-old.

“Henrietta?!” She called out, holding her coat like a ball gown and sprinting outside.

Francesca didn’t have a choice. She had to follow or it would be suspicious.

They all sprinted into the backyard and through the purple fort curtains and froze.

There was Henry. Kneeling on the rug. Clutching the now-damaged Bo Peep like a child holding a deceased pet.

Henry’s mouth hung open in devastated disbelief.

He didn’t even yell right away. He just whispered, “…She was fine this morning…”

Francesca felt like her soul got pinched.

So… he really cared about the doll?

Oh god.

Aunt Greta didn’t say a word. But Francesca felt her auntie’s stare like daggers down her neck.

“Wait… What’s this on the ground?” Henry asked. He bent down and picked something up near the couch leg.

His brows knit instantly. “…This is Margaret’s bracelet.”

Simon leaned over. “You sure?”

Henry scowled. “Yes! It’s the stupid sparkly one she waves around in class, when she’s yelling and pointing at someone. If it’s here… then that means she was here!”

Francesca’s mouth went dry. Oh no…..

Henry clutched the bracelet in one hand and his broken doll in the other. His face twisted into fury.

He stood upright, steam practically coming out of his ears.

“Is this her idea of a joke!?”

“Henry—“ Francesca was cut off, by Henry stomping past her and everyone.

He shoved past the curtain, out of the fort, and made a beeline for the far corner of the fence—where a loose plank revealed the gap he and Margaret used to hop between yards.

Francesca moved forward, nearly grabbing him to stop—

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she stayed behind with everyone else and peaked at the other side of the fence to listen to what came next.

Henry glared up at the treehouse, the doll still clutched in one arm like a wounded patient.

He shouted, “MARGARET! GET DOWN HERE YOU BOGEY BRAIN!”

The treehouse door immediately flew open. Margaret stomped out, hands on her hips, incredibly crossed with the yelling below her

But the second the redhead saw Henry with the same frilly shepherdess doll she saw earlier—cradled in his arms like an injured soldier, her grouchy expression dropped and she let out an amused laugh.

“Oh–Hahahahhaha! Wow!” She snorted, crossing her arms. “So that doll is yours–Hahahahaha!”

But Henry's face didn’t change.

He didn’t make a comeback about it.

Instead, he kept yelling. “You can laugh all you want, but you’ve REALLY crossed the line!”

And that’s what threw Margaret off and stopped her laughter.

He wasn’t messing around.

She blinked, the humor draining off her face as she raised an eyebrow at him.

“When I steal your dolls, I rearrange their arms and legs! But I’ve never broken any of them even if you were rich enough to buy another one! What was the point of destroying Mary Bo Peep!?” Henry pointed a finger up at her.

“EXCUSE ME!?” Margaret’s hands slammed on the wooden railings, offended at the accusation.

She angrily rushed down the steps of her treehouse, meeting him on equal grounds.

“I didn’t break your stupid doll, beetle brain!” Margaret snapped the moment they were face to face. “Why would I even bother?!”

Henry didn’t budge. Instead, he thrust the familiar bead bracelet in her face.

“This was in my fort,” He said. “right next to the couch I hid her in!”

Margaret’s eyes widened briefly. She had wondered where that went….

She grabbed it and yanked it from his palm, putting it back around her wrist. “So?! All that proves is that I was there! It doesn’t prove I did anything to that ugly old-timey dolly!”

“Well, who else could’ve possibly ripped up my Bo Peep doll?!” Henry barked.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Margaret’s eyes slid sideways…

Right toward Francesca. Who silently gulped.

And her nose crinkled.

“Oh, please.” She turned back to Henry and pointed to the eavesdropping group, “Why don’t you ask your family right there?”

Henry briefly glanced back at the group and back to Margaret, counting on his fingers as he spoke, “One—Great Aunt Greta gave me Bo Peep. You really think she’d destroy her own gift?”

Aunt Greta proudly nodded, arms crossed, smug and proud that her favorite niece was sticking up to this girl she’s never met before.

Henry continued, “Two—The worst Peter’s ever done to my stuff, is put fairy stickers on them. And he’d never touch a doll like this, unless it wore fairy wings and came with glitter paint.”

Peter, half-offended and half-flattered that his brother wouldn’t think him a doll murderer, huffed in agreement while glaring at Margaret.

“Three…” Henry looked at Simon. “Dad might think I’ve gone barmy, but he’d never break my toys. He just confiscates them!”

Simon awkwardly raised a thumb in support.

“And four—my mum,” Henry said, turning to her last, with a skeptical look. “Yeah, okay. She’s been weird about the doll. Obsessed even. But I know she’d never destroy something she wanted so badly! She’d sooner hide it somewhere and deny she touched it.”

Francesca straightened her posture.

“Th-That’s right! If that doll was mine, I would’ve protected her from… becoming that.” She gestured weakly to the damaged doll.

Margaret’s eyes looked at the woman, incredulously. Her jaw parted in shock.

Oh NO! No no no!

She was NOT taking one for the team.

She’s never taken it for her own team, she certainly won’t take the blame for a bogey brain’s miserable mother! The audacity of this woman!

And so, with her arms crossed and her chin up, Margaret coldly stated, “…Not on purpose, maybe.”

Henry’s brows pulled together.

Francesca stiffened.

Margaret smiled—oh, it was one of those “you wanna play games?” smiles.

She elaborated, “But that thing? That doll? It giggled like some kind of possessed cave troll when your mum hugged it. Creeped me out a bit.”

She jabbed a thumb in Francesca’s direction, “But your mum was a total scaredy cat. She freaked out, threw the thing, and it landed behind the couch. Maybe if she wasn’t so sensitive and overreacted, that doll wouldn’t be so torn.”

Francesca’s face twisted into an offended expression.

“Excuse me, young lady!” She snapped defensively. “I don’t care how many horror movies you’ve seen—that demonic giggle would frighten anyone!”

She froze.

Too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could shove the words back in.

Because Henry was staring right at her.

Not yelling. Not fuming. Just… staring.

Slowly, a piece clicked into place behind his eyes. “…You heard the giggle?”

Francesca didn’t answer.

Henry took a slow step forward as his brows knitted together. “I never turned the voice box on for anyone…”

Henry’s grip tightened around Bo Peep.

His jaw clenched, but he released it and let out a disappointed, “So it was you…”

And his mother just stood there. Silent and guilty.

No denial. No excuse. No witty comeback.

Not even a “Don’t be horrid, Henry.” To the true-to accusation.

Aunt Greta’s arms were still crossed, as she stared Francesca down into the next dimension.

Peter and Simon looked at the woman in disbelief. Francesca was the last person they expected to be the culprit. But judging by Great Aunt Greta’s expression, she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised.

And Margaret…. had already stepped back and disappeared from the family’s view, hand lifted and waved them off as if to say “This is officially not my problem anymore.”

Henry didn’t say anything for several seconds.

Then, slowly, he looked down at Bo Peep.

Her bonnet was stained. Her little arm was still barely hanging on. Her once-glowing pink dress looked like she'd been in a bar fight with a bunch of chocolate bandits.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t throw a tantrum.

Instead, he raised his head, looked his mum dead in the eye, and said calmly—but coldly,

“You ruined her.”

Francesca finally opened her mouth. “Henry, I—”

But he was already turning around.

He walked away from her, his footsteps loud in the silent backyard, heading back through the curtain and into the fort.

He didn’t throw anything.

He didn’t scream.

He just disappeared behind the flaps with Bo Peep in his arms, quietly setting her down on the tea table to inspect the damage.

Francesca stood frozen, hand limp by her side.

Aunt Greta was the first to speak.

“…Well.” Her tone was level. Sharp. Almost amused, but not kindly. “Looks like someone finally learned what it feels like to be the one who ruins a gift made with love.”

Francesca winced.

Simon tried to chime in with a hopeful, “Uh, dear? Is there some misunderstanding? Because…” He chuckled, trying to think more lightly. “You wouldn’t actually do such a thing, right?”

Peter nodded, “You’re always teaching me and Henry to be careful with other people’s things. And not to be jealous too! Henry was lying right? You weren’t ‘obsessed’ with a silly little doll?”

Francesca sighed and waved them off.

She wasn’t ready for comfort.

She wasn't even ready for consequences.

Oh… but with the way Aunt Greta tailed behind her, she knew she was going to face a lecture anyway.

.•.•.

Inside the fort, Henry tried repositioning the doll’s torn arm exactly where it should be before getting somethin.

He brought out some clean tissue from a supply box, dabbed the cocoa stains carefully, then stepped away again to get a sewing kit.

Aunt Greta had given that sewing kit a year ago. He never used it. But Ralph was oddly skilled with stitching stuff up, so he kept the kit in his fort whenever the curtains rip, for Ralph to patch up.

He pulled out some thread. And a tiny needle.

Time to figure out how to sew a doll’s arm back in place…

Great Aunt Greta was absolutely on one.

Her voice carried through the living room in that special way old ladies could manage—neither yelling nor whispering, but somehow echoing in every ear.

“…And what is your excuse for your lack of gratitude?” She demanded, fixing Francesca with a gaze that could melt steel. “You cry for pink shoes, you’re given pink shoes! What’s the hot issue if the red bottoms were hand-sewn by your mother? Or if it was a slightly different shade of your preferred pink?”

Francesca’s mouth opened. Closed…. Opened again….

She looked like she was chewing air.

Simon sat awkwardly on the armrest, torn between siding with his wife and not wanting to get incinerated by his great-aunt-in-law.

Peter fidgeted, glancing between them, clearly wishing he could vanish.

But Aunt Greta continued, “You, Francesca, were different. You demanded things. Not because you cherished them, but because everyone else had them. And when your parents — bless their overworked souls — did everything they could to make those dreams come true? You spat on their efforts like a spoiled, entitled princess!”

Eventually Francesca found some defiance in her and slammed her fist on the couch chair before exploding.

“Oh, please, Aunt Greta!” She snapped. “You were the one with money! You were richer than mum! And you had the real doll all this time! Why didn’t you just give it to me when I asked for it?! I was a child!”

“And Henrietta isn’t?”

“Oh Henrietta this, Henrietta that! —Would you take a look at who you’re wasting such pretty dolls on already?!” Francesca argued back.

“How many years is it going to take until it sticks in your head that Henry’s a boy!? BOY! BOY! BOY!” She slammed the armrest each time she yelled ‘boy’.

Peter, for the first in his perfect little life, gave his mum a questioning look and spoke up. “Mum… you always said it was rude to correct the elderly.”

Francesca sucked in a breath. “That’s—”

“And you said Henry should just accept it because she’s—”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID, PETER!” she snapped, pounding the armrest once more for emphasis.

“So, why now? Why are you now insisting with Great Aunt Greta that Henry’s a boy? It didn’t matter to you before… Why does it matter now? Is it because he’s…. getting gifts you wanted?” Peter questioned her skeptically.

Francesca stared down at Peter, “Don’t use that tone on me, Peter.”

“Peter’s right though…” Simon butted in. “Every other girly gift Henry was given never fazed you all that much. But now that he’s got a doll that you’re so clearly obsessed with—you suddenly don’t think it’s fair that a boy is getting a girl’s toy?”

Francesca directed her furious stare at her husband, but he didn’t seem affected by it.

Then, in an exasperated tone, Great Aunt Greta exclaimed, while cupping the side of her face in realization, “Henrietta’s a boy?!”

There was a beat of silence so long you could hear the clock ticking.

Simon and Peter both turned to look at her like she’d sprouted antlers.

Peter leaned over and softly whispered to dad, “Well… looks the train finally reached the station…”

Simon whispered back, “It may have taken twenty stops and a detour through Narnia, but yes. Yes, it did.”

Aunt Greta shook her head at herself. “Goodness… why didn’t anyone tell me Henrietta was a boy?”

Everyone stared at her flatly.

“Why didn’t Henry tell me?” She added.

The bottom of Francesca’s eye twitched.

Aunt Greta continued rambling…. “I thought Henrietta was simply a bit of a tomboy. A very determined tomboy. I mean, look at all the frog-catching and slug-collecting. Why, if you’d only told me I was buying dolls for a little boy, I might have gotten him… trains. Or… what do boys like these days? Wrestling? Rock music? Guns? Hmmmm….”

She blinked at the ceiling, as if consulting an invisible list. “It flutters my heart to see he warmed up to my presents anyway.”

Simon, despite himself, stifled a laugh.

Peter buried his face in his hands, hiding from the secondhand embarrassment.

But Aunt Greta went back to being serious. “Whatever the case, Francesca… You want to know why I never gave you the doll?”

“Because you don’t deserve it.” She said with a firm voice.

Francesca’s shoulders tensed as she angrily stared at her aunt.

“Your child—who you so suddenly insist is a boy, when I’ve been mistaking him for a girl without complaint from you until now—has shown more affection to that doll in two days than you did to your own parents' handmade labor of love in your entire childhood!”

Francesca’s lip twitched as she desperately tried to defend herself, “Don’t you think it’s normal for little kids to want things in their favorite color? It was bubblegum pink. I wanted fairy dust pink. I’m allowed to get upset over color—”

Aunt Greta cut her off, “Oh, boo hoo! I wanted a back that didn’t ache when I got out of bed, but it’s better to have that than no working spine at all—we can’t all have what we want, Francie.”

The room went quiet.

Simon cleared his throat, but ultimately chose not to speak anymore.

Aunt Greta took a moment to center herself again, adjusting her necklace before speaking directly to Francesca with a rare seriousness in her tone. “And if we’re bringing in colors—It’s normal for a child to be upset over getting something in orange when they wanted it in blue. But crying about the shade of blue is a different, petty, little story.”

“But more importantly—That doll represented care. Skill. Patience. Love. And you threw it in your parents’ faces. And now, after thirty years of pretending you didn’t have that entitled attitude, you still think you deserve something you rejected out of vanity?” Greta scoffed. “Henry has been more grateful, despite never asking for such a doll, and that makes him more mature than you were when you were twice his age.”

Francesca, flushed and speechless, simply folded her arms and stared at the floor.

Aunt Greta came closer and pointed down as she finished off scolding her niece, “You should think hard about why you’re so bitter. Because you may have grown up, but you never quite learned to value the right things.”

Francesca didn’t answer.

.•.•.

Meanwhile, in the fort…

Henry was sitting on a chair with Bo Peep still laid out on the table, carefully dabbing her dress with a damp cloth.

He poked himself with the needle a few times, before deciding to give up on trying to sew on his own. He’ll just ask Aunt Greta later after everything cools off inside the house. For now he busied himself trying to clean the brown splotches as much as he could.

Margaret came back, pushing past the curtains like she owned the place.

She quietly looked at Henry for a moment, and seeing as he didn’t bother shooing her away, she dug through his pile of junk until she found her boardgame.

“Hey!” She called him. “I’m taking this back, now.”

Henry didn’t even look up. “Yeah, sure. I don’t care.”

Margaret stood there. The silence stretched.

Then, she sighed as she set her game down on the couch.

“I’m not a seamstress…. But I stitched up my stuffed giraffe before. So if you want, I’ll help you… I dunno. Re-attach her arm? Make her look… less like a zombie.” She offered as she walked closer to the table.

Henry was quiet for a moment.

Then he reached out with one hand and dragged the spare chair over.

Margaret plopped herself down without further ceremony and helped herself to the tea pot and poured herself a cup.

Henry didn’t even bother protesting. If she wanted cocoa, she could have cocoa. It was the least of his problems.

Margaret held out her hand. “Give.”

Henry hesitated, then placed the needle and thread in her palm.

She tested the sharpness of the needle on her thumb like she’d done it a thousand times before.

“So…” She drawled, threading it easily before continuing. “…about the elephant in the room…”

Henry watched her start to stitch the torn seam, surprisingly precise.

Then blinked when he realized she was still talking to him. “What?”

Margaret spoke again without looking up. “Go on. What about your mum and this doll? Because I really want to know why you’re saving something like this.”

“Oh. Well…” Henry sighed.

And so he started from the top. From the little story of his mum being “Fake Francie” as a little girl, to receiving a 30 year old doll, to everything that escalated to the current problem.

Margaret snorted, “Like mother, like son.”

Henry gave her a sour look, making Margaret laugh harder. “Just kidding. Your mum definitely sounds worse than you. And I thought it would be impossible to say that.”

Henry picked up Bo Peep’s detached crook and fiddled with it as he continued. “Yeah… And… I guess that’s why Great Aunt Greta thought it was a good punishment to give me that doll mum wanted.”

Margaret looked up from the stitching. “And she got that mad over you actually liking it?”

Henry nodded.

Margaret let out a long, low whistle. “Wow.”

Though she still doesn’t get why Henry liked it, she supposed she didn’t need to know everything in the story… That topic could be something she isn’t ready to hear from her (fr)enemy.

Then, without any sympathy at all, she added, “Your mum is weird and dumb.”

“I know.” Henry replied.

.•.•.

The next day, after avoiding conversation from her son the whole rest of yesterday—Francesca waited in anticipation by the front door for Henry to come back from the mall with Great Aunt Greta.

She woke up late and had caught her son and her Aunt heading out the door. With only a “We just need to go on a short shopping trip!” as a response when they spotted her at the top of the stairs, before shutting the door behind them.

Finally, after forever, they both finally came back. Henry coming in first, holding a shopping bag with one arm, and the other held the door open for Aunt Greta.

“Henry!” Francesca exclaimed, shuffling aside when Aunt Greta walked by her to go up the stairs.

She immediately kneeled down, and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry about Little Mary Bo Peep!”

Henry flinched when she grabbed his shoulder, but let her continue. A nonchalant look on his face as he listened.

“It was so selfish of me! So… so… immature, so childish, so petulant—“

“I still don’t like reading books—let alone a boring dictionary, but I think three of those words mean the same thing.” Henry cut her off.

“O-Oh… right… B-But… What I mean is… Aunt Greta was right… I received something different from—yet—exactly what I wanted… but I didn’t appreciate it because of the littlest errors… But here I am, forcing you to be grateful for things that you’ve never asked for and didn’t want… It’s so good of you to actually find joy in that doll. And I ruined it over my silly little jealousy…” Francesca said, her expression dropping even sadder. “And… I’m sorry.”

Henry’s face softened when he heard the apology. Then he smiled at his mum. “It’s okay mum.”

He slid the shopping bag off his shoulder, and held it out to his mum. “Actually… I asked Aunt Greta to take me to the mall, so I can get you a gift. So you’ll feel less awful.”

Francesca’s eyes widened in surprise. “O-Oh! For me?”

Henry got her a present? Even after she ruined his present?

“Uh yeah…” Henry didn’t know what came over him either. But… he supposed his mum was punished enough. She deserved a consolation gift.

Francesca was sure that, while her son was handing a peace offering, she definitely won’t get to touch that doll again. (She checked his room and the fort again during his trip at the mall….. He’s definitely not letting another doll theft happen.)

Francesca took the bag from his hand, and gasped as she read the brand name.

“It’s from the Sophisticated Sophie’s Store!” Her face lit up with joy. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She’s seen their designs, but they cost more than everything in I’m A Lady combined.

“Yeah. I think I saw you looking at their dresses in a magazine one time… but I know the stuff you look for in magazines cost way more than your usual clothes. So I asked Aunt Greta if we could buy just one dress from there. She said yes, and even helped me find a dress that’s color would suit you, she said.” Henry told her.

Francesca hugged Henry tightly and hummed excitedly, “Thank you, Henry! Thank you so much!”

Henry didn’t hug back. Not used to this much… squishing. But he let his mum get off on her own, before walking around her and up the stairs. “Well, I hope you like it. Aunt Greta asked me to help her pack.”

As Henry disappeared from view, Francesca couldn’t hold her excitement. She took the box out of the bag and fumbled with the tape before finally opening it up and taking the dress out.

Instantly her smile dropped.

Inside the box was a beautiful dress. Neckline exactly where she prefers the dress, not too much but not too little shine from the sequins, and the material was so soft to the touch.

But….

“Aunt Greta…” Henry called to his great aunt, while he was trying to push a pile of clothes into one of her bags.

“Yes, Henry?” Aunt Greta replied, Henry shivered a bit, as he wasn’t used to his the elderly woman calling him by his actual name.

“Are you sure mum will like that dress?” Henry asked cautiously.

“Whatever do you mean, dear?” Aunt Greta said. Her voice slowly turned more smug.

“It’s just…. I’ve never seen mum wear anything fancy in olive green before…” Henry said, as he finally squashed everything and shut the suitcase tightly.

“Oh don’t be silly dear. I told you, that color is perfect for your mummy!” Aunt Greta bat her hand giggling mischievously.

Henry was starting to doubt his great aunt’s words.

And his skepticism was proven right, when his body jolted in surprise when a scream erupted from downstairs…

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

His mum’s voice bounced off the walls; it felt like the house shook.

Henry looked in the direction of the booming screams, then back at his smirking great aunt.

“Olive green. A color as strong as your mother’s hatred for it.”

Henry’s face dropped into a deadpan expression. “I should’ve known….”