Kidy
A baby is coming soon, little one, and everyone says it in a cheerful voice. You nod, because that is what you do. But in the evening, at the window, you look at your star and there is a knot in your stomach that has nothing to do with cheerful. Grow sits down next to you. 'Something is bothering you.' You nod. 'A new star is coming.'
'Oh, that's easy!' Grow beams. 'Love doesn't get divided, love grows! The sky is huge! There is room for everyone!' Grow says five more sentences like that, each one shinier than the last. You look at the floor. 'Grow,' you say quietly, 'who will hold me when they are both holding the baby?' Grow opens his mouth. Then closes it. He has no sentence for that.
Grow is quiet for a long time. 'You're right,' he says at last. 'Arms get divided. Laps get divided. Time gets divided. That is true, and it is a nuisance, and nobody asked you.' Something loosens in your chest, because that is the first thing today that was not said in a cheerful voice.
'But this I am asking you,' says Grow, and points at an empty piece of sky. 'The new star has to stand somewhere. Where?' You look for a long time. You move your finger left, then right, then you find the spot: a little lower and a little to the side, so that both yours and hers can be seen. 'There.' And in that spot, not one second later, a tiny new star lights up. Grow nods. 'Nobody else would have known where. You know this sky.'
'And one thing does not get divided,' says Grow. 'Watch tomorrow evening. Your star comes on first, before all the others, the way it has every evening until now. That was yours before anyone arrived, and it stays yours.' The sky has one more star in it now. Yours still comes on first. 'So, little one,' Grow asks, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Grow. 'Tell a grown-up one thing you want to stay only yours. Not the whole day. Just one thing.' Good night, little one.