She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stared at those shoes like they might destroy her.
I left her room without another word, taking the shoes with me. My footsteps echoed as I descended the stairs, but everything inside me was screaming. Someone had brought ballet shoes into my home, into my daughter’s room, and I knew exactly who.
Mrs. Pearson was in the kitchen when I found her, and Gianna sat at the counter with her laptop. Both of them looked up when I entered, and both of them went very still when they saw what I held.
“Who brought these into my home?” My voice came out level, but something in it made Gianna’s eyes widen. “Who gave my daughter ballet shoes?”
Mrs. Pearson and Gianna exchanged a glance, the kind of silent communication that spoke of conspiracy.
“Mr. Valdez,” Mrs. Pearson started, her voice careful. “Lily has been doing much better lately. More engaged, more responsive. Perhaps?—”
“I asked who gave her these shoes.”
Another glance between them. Gianna’s fingers twisted together in her lap, and Mrs. Pearson’s expression carried something that looked almost like pity.
But neither of them said Sarah’s name. They didn’t have to.
The leather was soft against my palm—innocuous, just an object. But objects carried meaning, and these particular objects carried memories I’d spent two years trying to bury.
Lily crying in her doorway, staring at her ballet clothes with tears streaming down her face. The silent, broken sobs that shook her small body while I stood helpless, unable to fix what was breaking inside her. The way she’d look at those clothes like they were weapons pointed at her heart.
So I’d removed them. Burned them. Taken away everything that made her cry.
The doorbell rang, and I heard Gianna move to answer it. Voices drifted from the entryway, and then I heard it. Sarah’s voice, humming something light and cheerful like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Like she hadn’t just violated every boundary I’d set.
“Ms. Tinsley,” I said, stepping into the entryway. “My office. Now.”
The humming stopped. She turned to look at me, and whatever she saw in my face made her smile disappear. “I don’t have a session today. I just came to drop off some worksheets for Lily?—”
“My office.” I didn’t raise my voice. “Now.”
She followed me down the hallway, her footsteps uncertain behind mine. When we reached my office, I held the door open and waited until she’d entered before closing it with a controlled click.
Then I held up the ballet shoes.
“What are these doing in my daughter’s room?”
Her eyes went to the shoes, and I watched recognition cross her face. Watched her spine straighten as she prepared to defend herself.
“Those are ballet shoes,” she said, like I might be too stupid to identify them myself. “Lily’s been working with them during our sessions.”
“You brought ballet shoes into my home without my permission?”
“You weren’t here to ask permission from.” Her voice carried an edge I’d heard before, that defensive sharpness she used when cornered. “And Lily wanted to dance, so I helped her.”
“You helped her?” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
Something in her expression flickered. “I took her to a dance studio. Just once. She needed?—”
“You took her where?” The question came out too loud, anger bolting through me at the confession. “You took my daughter to a dance studio without telling me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m someone who pays attention to what Lily needs!” Her voice rose to match mine. “I see a child crying because she misses something she loved and tries to help instead of just taking everything away!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me!” She stepped closer, and I could see the anger burning in her eyes now. “Explain why letting your daughter do something that makes her happy is such a terrible crime!”
