A/N: My prompt for this story was 'dust'. Maddie writes herself, honestly.

You weren't looking for this. In fact, your seven-year-old mind no longer remembers what you were looking for at all. It's a rainy Sunday afternoon and your mom is reading a book while your dad and brothers are in front of the TV watching their Cubs game. You're not really interested, and sometime after your blue marker dried out in the middle of coloring a picture you ended up in the attic.

You hadn't meant to accidentally knock the photo album you now hold in your hands off the shelf and send it tumbling to the floor, photographs scattering haphazardly across the wood panels.

"Oops!"

You crouch down to pick up the various prints, analyzing them curiously as you lower yourself to the floor, crisscrossing your legs in front of you with the album in your lap. You take one of the photos in your small hand and wipe a layer of dust from its surface with your fingertip, brushing it off on your faded jeans. A smile tugs at your lips and you giggle to yourself at the image. Neither of the subjects looking at the camera, your mom has an amused grin on her face, eyes fixed on your daddy, whose face is buried in her shoulder and thick hair. They look different—younger, but mostly just silly—you decide, and set the photo down in front of you.

You tuck a lock of your dark hair behind your ear as you flip open the book. There are at least two snapshots on each page, excluding places where one had fallen from its spot when the book hit the floor. They appear to have been in order, you notice, and you wonder how in the world you're going to piece the pages and pages of memories back together again. Dates, wedding, holidays, trips, babies... This book has it all, and you have little idea as to what goes where.

You're apprehensive about telling your mother about your dilemma, fearing the album was special—though, you reason, special things don't belong in dusty attics—and she'll chide you for not being more careful. So you do your best with your limited knowledge of your parents' life before you came along and softly make your way downstairs again.

When you reach her bedroom and turn the doorknob, you find her in sweatpants and a bright-colored tank top, lounging comfortably on the bed.

"Mommy."

"Hey, baby." She sets her book down and eyes the object in your hand, eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. "Whatcha got there?"

"I dunno." You take steps toward her and hand her the keepsake before hopping up beside her atop the covers. "I just found it."

She turns it over in her hands, scrutinizing it and crinkling her nose at the fine covering of gray filth adhering to her fingertips. "Found it where, sweetheart?"

"In the attic."

She raises her eyebrows. "What were you doing up there?"

You shrug innocently. "Looking for something to play with."

"And you found this instead?"

You nod. "Mhmm. But—don't be mad—but I dropped it off the shelf by accident and some of the pictures fell out. I didn't mean to, though."

"Ah, don't worry about it." She doesn't seem mad at all, which shouldn't surprise you much since you've rarely seen her angry or losing her temper.

"I tried to put them back but I don't know if it's right," you add quietly.

"That's okay, sweetie, let me see..." She smiles reassuringly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and flipping through a few pages before stopping. "Mm, this one," she slides the photo out of the plastic pocket, "is after your dad and I left CTU. So that comes later." Setting it aside, she continues to scan the next few pages. "Hm." You see a grin begin to form on her face.

"What?"

You feel her fingers in your hair, combing lightly through its waves as you lean into her side. "This page is just a little mixed up, that's all."

"But those are all Christmas pictures," you reason with her, pointing.

"Right, but this one," she indicates, removing the extraneous image and holding it out to you for a closer look, "is from a different Christmas. See how big my tummy is?"

"Oh yeah."

"These other ones are really old; that was my first Christmas with your dad. We're still in our apartment. But in this one here I'm pregnant with your brother."

"Which brother?"

"Anthony," she clarifies. "I don't think we have any pictures with Mase in this old thing."

"How come?"

"I guess you guys kept us so busy we forgot to add to it," she speculates, flipping through some more. "Oh, this one's from our wedding reception. That's back before those Christmas pictures."

You snuggle in closer and crane your neck to see. "You look pretty."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. You're always pretty. But in your wedding dress you look like a princess."

She chuckles, sliding the image into its rightful place before continuing with the reorganizing. "Mm, the day we brought Anthony home," she says softly, smiling with her eyes as her thumb brushes over a different image. "I was so nervous."

"Why?"

"'Cause your daddy and I had never had a baby before. Your brother was so tiny and so perfect and I was afraid of making mistakes."

You're not sure what she means by that exactly. Your mom says goofy things sometimes. "That's funny."

"Why is that funny?"

You give her a look that says she should know the answer. "'Cause you're the best mommy ever, that's why. Everything you do is always right."

She laughs and tickles your bare feet, and you can't hold back a squeal of laughter. You've always been ticklish; your daddy says you get it from your mom. "Well I've had a bit of practice by now, sweetie."

You notice with each turn to a new page that the photos are becoming fewer, with visibly more time passing between each one.

"Look, it's baby Maddie."

You grin when you see where she's pointing. "Oh yeah, there I am. I was a cute baby."

"You're still my cute baby." She presses a noisy kiss to your cheek. "You were only a few months old there." You watch her take the photo out and flip it over, revealing some words scrawled across the back in blue pen. "Three months."

She flips through the next few pages of milestones, birthdays and trips to the park before finally reaching the last page. "Aww. I love this one."

It's you and your daddy, passed out on the couch one afternoon. You're still in your PJ's, cuddled up in the crook of his arm with your head on his chest, your favorite blanket over top of you. You don't really remember that moment, but the image is one you've seen before.

"You must've been about four." She's looking at the photo, then at you, a nostalgic gleam in her eye. "Daddy fell asleep there so you decided to go join him."

"I didn't wake him up?"

"Not for very long. He pretended he was still asleep while you squeezed in there, but I could tell. After a few minutes you were both out again, anyway." She squeezes you tight and rests her chin on your little head. "You have a good dad, you know that?"

"I know. And a good mom and a good big brother and a good baby brother."

"Mm, you're a blessed little girl, aren't you?"

You nod, smiling, but her question makes you wonder something you never thought about before. What was your mom like when *she* was a little girl? Did she like to color pictures or play with dolls or build Lego houses and forts with her brother like you do? Was her hair always so wild and curly? Did she look like you, even a little bit? It's been a long time since your mom was seven and all these thoughts are making your head hurt.

You shift and look up so you can see her face. "Mommy?"

"Mhmm."

"What were you like when you were a little girl like me?"

"What was I like?" She pauses for a moment, eyes bright. "That was a pretty long time ago, baby..."

"Yeah, but do you remember what you liked to play? And did you have curly hair and did you look like me? 'Cause Daddy says I look like you but I don't know of he's right 'cause I'm seven and you're a grownup and it's hard to tell."

She giggles softly, the way she often does when you talk a lot. "Hmm. Seven years old, huh? I... I remember I liked to draw, just like you. I liked it when my big brother read books to me..."

"Like I read to Mase sometimes?"

"Yeah, exactly like that. I loved cherries, my favorite color was purple. I liked jump rope and the beach and Sesame Street and taking pictures with my mom's camera. And playing on my dad's computer... Climbing trees... I was always the shortest in my class..."

"And you always had curly hair?"

"Always had curly hair." She grins. "And I liked to sing..."

"Daddy says you're his favorite singer in the world."

She laughs. You've always loved the sound of her laugh. "When did he say that?"

"When you were in the shower one time, we could hear you. He said you used to sing to us when we were babies to make us stop crying."

Her fingers fondle the cotton of your white, smock-style top. "He's right, I did do that."

"You still haven't said if you looked like me."

She meets your gaze again, and next thing you know she has that "lightbulb" look on her face, like she just had an idea. "You know what, why don't we find out?" Her arm falls away from your shoulders as she crawls across the bed and pulls open the bottom drawer of her bedside dresser. You watch with anticipation as she digs around in it for a few seconds before producing a yellowing, faded, plain envelope. "I haven't looked at these in ages," she tells you, shaking the envelope and watching as over a dozen photos tumble out. Most of them look funny, you realize. Strangely hued, with a thick white border around each square image.

"Why do your pictures look like that?"

"They're called Polaroids," she explains. "It was this huge thing in the '70s. You would take a picture and the camera would spit it out right away."

"Woah."

"Pretty neat, huh? Nothing like the quality we have now, though. Anyway..." She flips through her small stack and finds what she's looking for. "There's me."

You take the photo from her in wonderment and feel a smile instantly inch its way across your face. You really do look like her. You see why your dad says so, why your grandma says so every time she sees you. Her hair was curlier, lighter, but something about this miniature version of your mom reminds you of looking in a mirror. "You were seven?"

"Around that." Then she hums thoughtfully and plays with your hair. "You do look like me, don't you? I always think you look so much more like your dad, but... I don't know, missy, I feel like I see more of me as you get older."

"Really?" You can't think of anyone else on the planet you'd rather look like, to be honest. Your mom is beautiful.

She nods and puts the photo back in her envelope. "You know what? I need to take more pictures."

"We should put more in the album!"

"That's a good idea... Or we could even start a scrapbook or something. Would you like that?"

You're not entirely sure what a scrapbook would entail, exactly. Your mom isn't normally into that kind of stuff, but you go along with it because you love spending time with her, whatever it is you're doing. "Yeah!"

"Okay, we'll do that. And work on it on weekends when we're looking for something to do. Just you and me."

"Like when we're bored of watching the Cubs lose?"

She snickers at your remark. "Don't let your dad hear you talking like that."

Perfect timing, he appears in the doorway with your little brother on his hip. "Talking like what?"

"Mm, nothing, sweetheart." You try not to giggle as she dodges his question and changes the subject. "How was the game?"

He shrugs. "A'right."

"That bad, huh?"

"Hey," he drawls and kisses your mom's lips. "Be nice." He angles his head toward the envelope she's still got in her hands. "What's that?"

"Just some old pictures. Maddie and I were thinking of starting an Almeida family scrapbook."

"Yeah?"

"And then she wanted to know what I looked like when I was her age, so I dug these out."

He grins mischievously. "Let's see."

"You've seen them before."

"Years ago, Michelle. All I remember is that you were cute." He holds his hand out. "C'mon, let's see."

"Le'see!" three-year-old Mason pipes up as his pudgy fingers reach for the envelope. The little guy was never a talker, but had lately taken to agreeing with whatever came out of your dad's mouth.

Your dad kisses the squirming toddler on the head. "You heard your son, hand 'em over."

She finally surrenders, mock scowling. "Fiiiiine."

Your parents never really fight, they just pretend-fight. They tease each other all the time. You think that's just because they're in love and like hearing each other laugh.

Despite your daydreaming, you're still conscious of your mother's laughter at your dad's gentle baiting. In this moment, they remind you of that first silly photo you picked up off the floor. You wish you had a camera to capture this. It would look good in your scrapbook.

You still don't remember exactly what you were looking for in the attic, but you're glad you never found it.