THUMP AT THE WINDOW
Written and illustrated
By Elaine Troisi
to Clara’s
Millie awoke to sunlight streaming across her face. She went to the window and looked out over the expansive lawn. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she caught sight of something moving across her view.
No—not scurrying. Hopping.
It stopped in front of her window.
"He’s back!”
Every day for the past three days, he had come to visit. Millie had taken to calling him Thump. She ran to her bed, grabbed her stuffed bunny, and set it on the sill.
Thump nodded.
“What? Did you really nod at me?” she marveled.
“Millie,” her new stepmother called. “It’s time for breakfast.”
“Gotta go, Thump! Time to face their worried stares… again.”
Still in her pajamas, she raced down the hall. The smell of bacon called her name.
“Good morning, Peanut!” her father said, leaning in for a kiss.
Millie turned away. She loved her father, but she refused to acknowledge him. He had made a horrible decision.
He married that woman—she's a stranger.
She pulled out her chair and sat down, making as much noise as she could. She wanted them both to feel her anger—her pain.
“Please, Millie, try to understand. I love your father,” Rose said, placing a plate of pancakes before her. They had chocolate chip smiley faces—the way her mother had made them every Saturday morning.
“But you are not my mother.”
She said the words softly, yet they echoed in the room.
“Peanut,” her father began.
“I’m ten years old, Daddy. I’m not your peanut anymore.”
She jumped up from the table, pushing her plate away and overturning her orange juice.
“Look, Millie, honey, you will see your mother in three months. As soon as she finishes this photo shoot in Greece.” He paused to take her hand, but again Millie denied his touch.
Tears brimmed as she stormed out the door. He followed her.
“You don't understand! I need my real mommy—now. Not some stranger,” she replied.
She turned to look at her dad. He looked bewildered.
She didn’t care.
She stepped off the porch onto the dewy grass.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“For a walk in the woods. I know my way—and I won’t be alone,” she said.
Her voice trailed off. Thump still sat under her window. Waiting.
She heard her father’s voice, but it sounded far away.
“A walk in the woods—with who?”
She ran across the grass. It smelled sweet, like spring. Her spirits lifted. Thump sprang ahead or lagged behind, but he was always near.
Millie stayed on the path through the deeply wooded landscape. When Thump strayed into a dense thatch, she stopped, unsure whether to follow or turn back.
What would she face at home? What would she face if she followed Thump?
The unhappy familiar—or adventure with her new friend.
“Thump, wait up. I’m coming,” she called.
Into the thatch she went. Prickers pierced her skin, but they didn’t stop her. She could hear Thump thumping ahead, waiting.
She emerged into a sunny meadow. There sat Thump, again thumping his foot.
A breeze moved through the tall grass, turning it into shimmering waves. She ran her fingers through it, watching a sunbeam play across her hand.
Calm.
She lingered a moment, then moved on, trying to match Thump’s gait.
They came to a stream. The riffle of water made a musical sound. Millie wanted to sit on the mossy bank and dangle her feet, but Thump hopped across the tiny stepping stones before she could roll up her pajama pants.
He could be quick when he wanted to, so she didn’t dawdle. Slippers in hand, she crossed in her bare feet.
How delightfully cool it felt.
But where was Thump?
She looked for him, but he had raced out of sight. She moved into deeper shadows. It was suddenly very quiet.
Where was the breeze?
The birdsong?
It reminded her of sitting at the dinner table with her dad and Rose.
Quiet. Blank stares. Nothing spoken.
“Ah, there you are, Thump. Nice to see you again.” She smiled. “Where to next? More of Mother Nature’s charms?”
Soon enough, Thump came to a stop. He thumped his foot. A deer poked its head out of a clump of wild blueberry bushes. Thump hopped over to nibble.
Millie joined them. The three ate in quiet camaraderie.
They moved into a darker part of the forest. Millie looked up into the thick canopy. It was as if the trees were hugging one another.
She stepped closer to a giant moss-covered trunk and tried to wrap her arms around it—reaching for the hug she sorely needed. The bark was cool beneath her cheek. Damp. Steady.
Thump waited at her feet.
When she pulled away, something caught her eye.
At the base of the tree, tucked into the roots, was a small shape she hadn’t noticed before.
She crouched.
A bag.
Not any bag. It was a camera bag. For no reason, a tingle climbed from the base of her spine to her hairline.
The bag was worn at the edges, softened with age. The strap lay half-buried in moss, as if the forest had been slowly claiming it.
Millie hesitated.
Then she brushed it clean. The clasp gave with a soft click.
Inside, wrapped in a faded kitchen towel, was an album.
She lifted it out carefully. It felt heavier than it should have.
For a moment, she just held it there. Thump thumped once.
“Did she leave this,” she whispered, “for me?”
The forest did not answer.
But it didn’t feel forgotten. It felt… kept. Waiting.
“Thump… did you know my mom?” she gasped. “Of course you did.”
She sat beneath the tree—on the very spot where her mother once had. Birdsong returned, soft and melodic.
“And you brought me here, didn't you?” She saw the glint in his eyes. “Of course you did.”
Peter Rabbit sat beside her as she opened the album.
The first photo: her dad at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee beside him. “Like always,” she murmured.
“My mom took these,” she said, suddenly aware. “She’s a photographer.”
She turned the page. There was a photo of Millie at her bedroom window—looking out.
Looking for something.
“Look, Thump… it’s you. In the corner.”
She frowned. When had her mother taken that?
There were other pages.
This was a barbecue. And there—Rose. Younger. Setting a bowl of potato salad on the table.
“She makes the best,” Millie said softly.
Another photo: Rose setting up her mother’s camera equipment while her dad helped.
“I remember that day. Pet portraits.”
She glanced at Thump. “Like you.”
She turned to the last page.
Millie froze. A shadow passed over her face. Her hands trembled.
There she was—arms wrapped around a moss-covered tree.
Thump at her feet.
Her breath caught.
“How could that be?”
Then, quietly: “Stranger things have happened.”
She looked again at Rose in the earlier photos.
“Rose was my mother’s friend…”
The thought settled slowly.
Rose is not a stranger.
Millie wrapped the album and placed it back in the camera bag.
“Time to take me home, Thump.”
He thumped once.
On the way back, Millie thought.
About her old family.
And about her new one.
At her window again, she set the camera bag on the ledge, to hide it in her room later. It wasn’t just special. It was hers. A gift. Waiting all along, at the hugging tree—for her.
Thump thumped once. Millie turned to him. He nodded. Millie nodded. He hoped away.
“Come back soon, Thump.”
She ran into the kitchen. Rose and her father looked up, startled.
“What happened to you, Millie? Are you okay? You're green!”
Millie smiled.
“Yes, Rose. I’m fine.”
She brushed a bit of moss from her sleeve.
“I hugged a tree. That’s all.”