Her mother swallowed.
“For the yard?”
“Yeah. It’s easier than carrying the bag.”
The mother walked over and tested one of the handles with her palm.
Then she stepped aside.
“Okay.”
The girl pushed.
The wheel squeaked once.
Her mother flinched before she could stop herself.
The girl heard it too.
She paused, then looked back.
Her mother could have taken the handles from her.
Instead she nodded toward the yard.
“Go ahead.”
So the six-year-old pushed the wheelbarrow across the grass, this time with dirt instead of newborns, moving only a few yards while her mother watched from the porch.
The key still hung on its piece of string, but not around the child’s neck anymore.
It had been moved to a hook near the front door where the adults could reach it.
That was where it belonged.
The wheelbarrow belonged in the yard.
The babies belonged in safe arms.
And the little girl who had carried an adult-sized responsibility for three days was finally free to leave both hands empty when she wanted to.
