Every night, in a warm English nursery in London, three children slept with the window open. Because Peter Pan came in through it. But this story is not about Peter. It is about the eldest of those three children. Her name was Wendy Darling.
Wendy was eleven years old, with long chestnut hair tied always with a pale blue ribbon. She was the storyteller of the family — the one who tucked her small brothers John and Michael into bed, and told them, night after night, the story of the boy who never grew up.
One night that boy came for her. He tumbled through the window on a wind of pixie dust, and he brought her something quite alarming — his shadow, which had come off in his hand. Wendy sat him down at once, and sewed it gently back onto his heel with a needle and silver thread.
Then Peter offered her the sky. He taught her to fly — over London, over the sea, over the second star to the right — all the way to Neverland. And there Wendy became something remarkable: she became, of all things, a mother. To the Lost Boys, she was the first mother they had ever known.
When the pirates of the Jolly Roger came, and the children were taken to Captain Hook's ship, it was Wendy who did not cry. Wendy who stood up straight, chin lifted, and reminded the Lost Boys of the mothers they had once had.
Peter came, of course. He always does. And then Wendy went home. Because Wendy, unlike Peter, wanted to grow up — a house of her own, a garden, and a small daughter of her own to tell stories to. And one night, years later, she looked out at the London rooftops and saw a light at the window. Peter had come back. Not for her. For her daughter.