Janica shrugged, and Heidi grinned. To her daughter, orderly meant boring, and independent equaled loneliness. That’s just how she was: Plain wasn’t good enough, everything always had to be more. To her, buttercups weren’t just yellow, they were “sunshine-on-a-hazy day” yellow. The leaf of a birch tree was “green as verdigris on Grandpa’s coin collection.” A butterfly wasn’t colorful, but a “galaxy of brilliant hues.” And who could begrudge her that exuberance—especially with her past?
