“She got a new job,” I said instead. “In another city.”
“But she didn’t say goodbye.”
“It happened very quickly.”
Lily stared at her cereal, her face doing something complicated. “Did I do something wrong?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
The question hit me in the chest. “What? No. Lily, no—this has nothing to do with you.”
“But I made her sad sometimes. When I wouldn’t talk or when I got upset at ballet class. Maybe she left because I was too hard to work with.”
“Lily, listen to me.” I reached across the table and took her small hand. “You did nothing wrong. Sarah left because of adult problems that have nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”
She nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on her cereal—a quiet, devastating refusal to believe me.
The days that followed were worse—not dramatic, just a slow, steady unraveling.
Lily didn’t stop speaking—thank god, she didn’t regress that far—but she went quieter. More careful. She’d ask questions with this hesitance in her voice, like she was testing whether I’d answer or explode the way I had that day in the kitchen.
She went to her ballet classes and performed well. Her instructor praised her technique, her grace, her obvious talent. But when I picked her up, she’d be subdued instead of excited. No more chattering about what she’d learned or spinning in the elevator to show me new moves.
The joy was missing—and I’d been the one to take it from her.
And I’d taken it from her.
Mrs. Pearson found me in my office two weeks after Sarah left. I’d been staring at the same contract for an hour, unable to focus on the words.
“Mr. Valdez,” she said, her voice carrying that gentle firmness she used when she was about to say something I wouldn’t want to hear. “We need to talk about Lily.”
“What about her?”
“She’s struggling. I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Her tone made it clear she knew I had—and that I’d been pretending otherwise.
I had noticed. Was noticing every day. Watching my daughter move through the penthouse like a ghost, present but not really there.
“She’ll adjust,” I said. “Children are resilient.” It sounded weak even to my own ears.
“Children are also perceptive.” Mrs. Pearson moved further into the room. “She knows something happened between you and Ms. Tinsley. She knows you’re angry about something. And she’s blaming herself.”
“I told her it wasn’t her fault.”
“Words are easy. But your behavior is telling her something different.” She paused. “She barely speaks to you anymore. Have you noticed that?”
I had. Lily answered my questions with one or two words, didn’t volunteer information, kept herself contained in a way that felt like self-protection.
“What would you have me do?” The defensiveness in my voice surprised even me. “Bring Sarah back?”
“I’m not here to discuss Ms. Tinsley.” Mrs. Pearson’s voice was firm. “I’m here to discuss you and your daughter. And right now, Lily needs her father to be present instead of drowning in anger.”
“I am present.”
“Are you?” She looked at me with that knowing expression that made me feel like a child being called out by a teacher. “You’re exactly where you were two years ago—locked in your grief, pushing away the people who need you most.”
After she left, I sat in my office and stared at the walls. Thought about Lily asking if she’d done something wrong, about how she used to throw herself at me when I came home and now she barely looked up.
I’d lost Joana two years ago.
Was I about to lose Lily too—not to death, but to the same silence that had swallowed her once already?
