“Hold this.” I take one of her hands into mine and wrap it around the mug of hot chocolate. Then I grab her other hand to place it on the handle.
I hold both of her hands, making her look at me.
“You’ve come a long way. Do you want to wait to talk about it in the morning? After a good night’s sleep?”
Shanice pulls a hand away to press it against her forehead. “I shouldn’t have dropped in on you like this. You were away.”
“And now I’m back home,” I assure her. “If I knew you were here waiting for me, I would’ve come much sooner. When did you arrive?”
She looks around the room, at anything but me. “We got here around three.”
My eyebrows spike. It’s after nine o’clock.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“It’s fine. I drove around in the rental car for a while and then I found a mall where we hung out for a little bit. Th-There w-was …”
“Here, drink your hot chocolate,” I tell Shanice.
With a hand at her back, I lead her to the couch, opposite of where Charlotte’s laying. I take a seat in the armchair.
When Shanice brings the cup down to her lap, I tell her, “Aunt Wanda doesn’t live too far from here. I’m certain you could’ve stayed with her until I returned.”
Shanice gives me a tight smile. “I didn’t want to put Aunt Wanda out.”
My chest tightens. That’s Shanice—even when she’s breaking apart she doesn’t want to be a bother to anyone. Not even to ask for help when she really needs it.
“Tell me what happened.” I reach across and squeeze her wrist.
I know my own strength very well. And I may have swatted my girls’ behinds once or twice when they were young formisbehavior but corporeal punishment was never a regular occurrence in our household.
It was a rule I established very early on with my ex. After growing up with a father who was a little too quick to discipline me with physical violence, in my opinion, I made a conscious choice not to resort too often to that sort of discipline with my girls.
So, when I see my daughter flinch in pain from a light squeeze of her wrist, it’s as if the bottom drops out from beneath my feet.
“Shanice …” I whisper in horror after rolling up the sleeve of her shirt and seeing the bruises there.
The markings of handprints outline her wrist all of the way around.
“It was an acc-acc-accident,” she stutters after pulling her arm away and re-covering the marks.
I bite my tongue to keep the words I want to shout from bursting out. No one needs that right now. Besides, the way Shanice keeps her eyes down and in her cup of hot chocolate, unable to look at me, she already knows the truth.
I won’t push her to say it.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” I ask instead.
“I shouldn’t have c-come h-home early,” she says, still looking down into her cup.
The ache in my chest grows when I see the first tear drop into her hot chocolate.
“Shan—”
“I was early,” she starts again. “I decided to make it a special day with Randy, for Christmas since I was able to find a sitter for Charlotte. I took him to see Santa Claus at the mall. I figured there would be fewer people during the week.
“A fun mommy and son day.” That’s when she looks at me, tears streaming down her face.
“It was a really fun day. I even let him get ice cream and you know I don’t let him eat a lot of junk food.”
