That’s it.
Just “yeah.”
She keeps Frederick pressed against her chest and stares out the window like the Manhattan traffic is suddenly fascinating.
When your emotional intelligence tells you something’s off but you can’t quite pinpoint what.
I study her.
She’s not crying.
Not fidgeting.
Just... quiet.
Which honestly might be worse than a meltdown because at least meltdowns I know how to handle.
Then it clicks.
School was a distraction.
From the thing waiting athome.
Marco.
The father who used to fill her life with bedtime stories and laughter and actual human presence.
Going back to school wasn’t about learning. It was about escaping.
And suddenly I’m wondering if I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe getting her out of the house isn’t just good for her anxiety. Maybe it’s the only thing that will keep her sane.
We get home.
Marco is nowhere to be found, as usual.
Ben doesn’t eat any apple slices.
She goes straight to her room.
I give her a few minutes and then follow. Knock softly. “Can I come in?”
“Okay.”
She’s sitting on her bed. Frederick is propped beside her. She’s staring at her hands.
I sit down next to her. Close enough to be present but not so close I’m crowding. “You want to talk about it?”
Her bottom lip trembles.
Here it comes...
“The other kids asked where I was,” she whispers. “I said my daddy got hurt. They asked if he was okay. I said yes. But...”
“But?” I keep my voice gentle.
“I wish the old Daddy would come back.” The tears start. Silent at first, then harder. “It’s like he’s dead now, too. Like Mommy.”
Oh God.
