So she had been adopted, and she had been from a family that had not wanted her or been able to handle having a child. He felt a sense of pride over her being adopted; Terry often joked that his genes were rather useless and not worth actually wanting anything to do with. After all, both alcoholism and depression ran through from his mother's side, and who the hell knew what Mr. Nobody had given him genetically. There was also the relief in knowing that in Rosie's life, there was no mom or egg donor or surrogate to deal with. Adoption that was so final seemed clean to Terry. Like a handshake when no one lingered.
Terry smiled at the mention of lollies, bending down and telling her to 'jump up' while he lifted her from the floor onto the kitchen counter. He washed a pear off for her and cut it into quarters, handing her one of them and then eating one himself as they sat in silence for a brief moment. Silence was something he'd learned to live without since Rosie had arrived; she was noisy, the cinema was noisy, life was noisy. At home, everything was covered by a winter like quiet.
The library where he worked was always trapped in honey; a golden light shone through dusty windows, and sounds seemed low and labored. A man walking across boards, a book being laid onto a table. At home, his home was like jazz. Bursts of sounds followed by silence that was uncomfortable and seemed to hold no real home. He could help but feel like perhaps the greatest thing Rosie provided without meaning to was that she had forced him to use his every sense on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis: sound to hear what she was doing, smell to make sure nothing was going wrong, touch as he stroked her cheek and make sure her plate was not too hot, sight to see her smiles, and taste to check and see how good or bad dinner was.