"So what is the news?" I asked.
My father looked at my mother.
My mother took a deep breath.
"Bibi is moving away," she said.
I blinked at them.
I could not speak.
Bibi is my babysitter.
She has been my babysitter my whole life.
She is the best babysitter in the world.
She makes me soup when I am sick.
She holds my feet when I do handstands.
She knows which of my teeth are loose
and which ones I've lost
and where I was when I lost them.
She rubs my back when I am tired.
She takes a needle and thread
and sews up my pants
to make them fit right.
And she knows not to tickle me.
Because I hate to be tickled.
"Bibi cannot move away," I said.
"She is moving to Florida," my father said.
"To be with her father.
He is sick.
He needs her."
"I need her," I said.
"Bibi cannot move away," I said again.
"You are eight, Eleanor," my mom said.
"You are getting so big.
You don't need Bibi as much as you used to.
Everything will be okay."
I started to cry.
"I don't want to get so big," I said.
"Everything will not be okay," I said.
"This is as bad as somebody dying," I said.
And it was.
It was as bad as somebody dying.