Chapter 8: A Name and a Farewell

That day we stood in the main hall for a very, very long time.

The marble floor was cold beneath my shoes. My feet ached, but nobody moved. A hush had settled over the crowd, punctuated only by the muffled sounds from the inner room. It felt like waiting for a storm to pass.

So long that I went from a little hungry to very hungry. Only then did the First Lady come out of the inner room and tell my mom to take us home.

My stomach grumbled, but I was afraid to say anything. When the First Lady appeared, pale and trembling, even the Secret Service agents seemed to hold their breath. Mom squeezed our hands and hurried us toward the door.

Mom let go of us and went up to hug the First Lady.

It was a real hug—not one of those stiff, official ones. The two women clung to each other for a moment, the pain on their faces matching. I realized then that grown-ups could be just as scared as kids.

See, I said, when you’re sad you definitely need my mom’s hug.

I wanted to tell the boy from before, but he was nowhere to be seen. The world felt smaller without Mom’s arms around me.

As mom led us out of the front gate, we met my dad and the man who always followed the president at the door.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the White House lawn. Dad stood by the entryway, looking tired but strong. Beside him was Mr. Brooks, the president’s right-hand man, always in a dark suit, always somber.

My dad looked back and forth between Lily and me; I suspected he couldn’t tell us apart.

He rubbed his chin, eyes darting from me to Lily and back. I almost giggled—it was an old family joke that not even Dad could always tell us apart on a bad day.

I didn’t want to make it hard for him. Just as I was about to remind him I was the younger one, he stared at me, squatted down in front of me, and faced me.

Dad’s eyes were gentle, but serious. He crouched so we were face to face, searching my expression as if the answer to a riddle was hidden in my freckles.

Dad asked, "Did you see that older boy?"

His tone was quiet, almost secretive, like we were teammates on a spy mission.

I thought about it. Today I only saw one older boy, the one beside the president.

"Is it the handsome boy next to Uncle President?"

Dad: "Yes, that’s the handsome boy."

"Mm, I saw him. He looked very sad."

Dad: "Would you be willing to go comfort him?"

His voice cracked, just a little. The request felt heavier than usual, like it meant more than it seemed.

I thought about it. I was a little unwilling, because he just shook off my hand, but he really did look very sad.

I thought I could go comfort him again, maybe hug him like my mom hugs me, and he would feel better.

I said, "If I comfort him like mom comforts me, will he not be sad anymore?"

Dad: "Yes."

"Then I will."

After I spoke, my dad’s eyes turned red. My dad is very close with my mom, and I am very close with my mom. I wanted to ask mom what was wrong with dad, so I looked up at her, and she was crying.

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away before I could see, but I noticed. I felt a shiver—like something big was changing, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

I didn’t know what was wrong with everyone, so I looked helplessly at Lily, who looked helplessly back at me.

Our shared confusion knitted us closer together. I squeezed her hand and she squeezed mine back, both of us searching for answers in each other’s eyes.

After a while, the man beside my dad said to him, "Colonel Thompson, the president is still waiting for our reply."

His voice was stiff, rehearsed, the way officials spoke on TV. It made the air feel cold again.

Dad ignored him. He put his big hand on my head and said, "Natalie, from now on your formal name will be Natalie Thompson, alright?"

His palm was rough and warm. The finality in his voice made my stomach flutter. It was like being handed a new identity, all at once.

Thinking of how the First Lady always asked which of us was Natalie Thompson, I was always annoyed with her. I clearly told her I was the younger one, but she never remembered.

I also told the president, and he remembered every time. He always knew I was the younger one.

I answered my dad, "So from now on, when the First Lady asks which of us is Natalie Thompson, I can tell her it’s me?"

Dad: "Yes, Natalie is very smart."

"Okay, then I’ll be called Natalie Thompson."

The man who had been ignored by my dad suddenly spoke, "Colonel Thompson, it’s getting late. Soon the White House gates will be locked."

He looked at his watch, face pinched with impatience. I wondered if the White House gates really locked up at night, like a fairytale castle.

Dad: "I know. Sorry to trouble you with my daughter, Mr. Brooks."

Mr. Brooks came over and took my other hand. He looked at my dad, then at my mom with some difficulty, and said, "Mrs. Thompson, we still have to report back."

His grip was careful, almost apologetic. He looked at Mom the way people look at someone who’s about to lose something precious.

Mom gripped my hand even tighter, it even hurt a little.

Her knuckles were white. I didn’t mind the pain; I knew she didn’t want to let go.

Dad looked at mom and said, "Sarah, let go."

Mom let go of my hand, then hugged me tightly, apologizing over and over.

She whispered, “I love you. I’ll see you soon. Don’t be scared.” Her voice cracked on every word.

I remembered that every time mom went to the base to see dad, she would send Lily and me to Grandpa Joe’s house, and always hugged me tightly, reluctant to let go.

But at Grandpa Joe’s house, I didn’t have to study, write, or learn rules. When we had played enough and missed mom, she would suddenly appear and take us home.

I comforted mom, "Mom, don’t be sad. When I miss you, you can come get me."

Mom agreed.

She kissed the top of my head, promising in a shaky voice that she would always find me, no matter how high the White House walls got.

Mr. Brooks led me to a hall even bigger than the one at the First Lady’s reception.

The ceilings soared overhead, sparkling with crystal chandeliers. I felt tiny, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. It smelled like old books and lemon polish, a place where grown-up secrets lived.

There was a huge bed in the hall. The president lay on the bed, with the First Lady and that older boy by his side.

The President looked frail, the First Lady sitting rigidly beside him, her hands clenched. The boy—the one I was supposed to comfort—stood quietly, shoulders slumped.

I saw that older boy, ran up and grabbed his hand, afraid he would shake me off, so I held on tight this time.

He looked startled, but didn’t pull away. My heart raced—I hoped this meant I was doing it right.

He still looked very sad. Just as I was about to tell him not to be sad, the president called me over.

The president: "Natalie, come here to uncle."

His voice was weak, but he smiled for me. I walked over, tucking my free hand behind my back, suddenly shy.

I went to the bedside, and the president patted my head with his hand.

His hand wasn’t as warm as dad’s. When dad patted my head, I felt very warm.

He pointed at that older boy and said, "Natalie, is that older boy good-looking?"

He was better-looking than any of the older boys at Grandpa Joe’s house, so I nodded and said he was good-looking.

He chuckled again and again.

His laughter came out in weak bursts, but it still sounded genuine. The adults around us softened, just a little.

He said, "That older boy cries at the drop of a hat. Would you be willing to keep him company and comfort him?"

Remembering my promise to dad to comfort him, I said, "I would. Mom taught me how to comfort kids who love to cry."

That older boy said, "Dad, I didn’t cry."

His cheeks flared pink. He glared at me, but I only squeezed his hand tighter, determined to keep my promise.

The president said, "Good kid."

He smiled, pride flickering in his tired eyes.

Later, the First Lady took me back to the previous hall.

She asked me, "Natalie, do you want to sleep now?"

The First Lady finally remembered that my name was Natalie.

She spoke more softly than before, as if she was trying to make up for all those times she’d gotten it wrong.

I thought I should tell her my name is Natalie Thompson, because I didn’t want to see my mom suddenly stand up and answer her next time.

I said, "First Lady, my name is Natalie Thompson."

She patted my head too, "I know."

Her touch was gentler this time. I wondered if she really did know, or if she was just saying it because she had to.

"I’m hungry."

She accompanied me for dinner and even stayed with me as I slept. For several days she stayed with me. Later, Mrs. Murphy came, and she didn’t accompany me anymore.

Mrs. Murphy is my nanny.

She called everyone "sugar" and kept a tin of homemade pralines on her nightstand. She had a southern accent, wore big floral dresses, and always carried a bag of peppermints in her pocket. Her arms were soft, her hugs sturdy.

I asked nanny when mom would come get me. Nanny said soon.

Her answer was always the same, but she’d smooth my hair and smile, trying to make it sound like a promise.

I asked nanny if Lily missed me. I missed Lily very much, even more than I missed mom. But if she didn’t miss me, I wouldn’t miss her either.

Nanny said Lily missed me a lot.

Alright, I told nanny I missed Lily too.

Her eyes crinkled, and she promised to send my love in her prayers. I liked to think Lily could feel it, wherever she was.