“She didn’t kill him,” I snapped. “It was an accident.”
“I’m not saying she did, but I didn’t know you. I had no idea how you’d react. When I realized your daughter hadn’t said anything to you about seeing her father on the night he died, I decided to keep quiet. I thought she had a valid reason for not saying anything.”
“It was wrong of you to keep the truth from me.” My voice trembled with emotion. “When I think of the guilt she’s had to bear all of these months—” My voice caught. “There’s no telling what kind of emotional damage has been done to her.”
Lizzie’s lower lip quivered. “I’m sorry if I made the wrong decision. I’ve lived in fear of people learning the truth about how Daddy died for so long that I’ve become such a guarded person. I paid for that with my marriage.” She exhaled long and loud. “A habit that develops over the course of almost three decades is not easy to break.”
Emotion roiled inside my chest. If only Ali had never met Lizzie or her family. The decades-old secret they forced him to keep had not only rotted through my husband’s life but crossed generations and damaged our daughter. I no longer cared about Lizzie, her mother, or her brother, or what their true motivations were.
My daughter needed me. And I wasn’t going to let her down.
Ayla stayed home for a couple of days. I spent that time encouraging her to open up and, in true Arab-mother style, cooking her favorite foods.Bintirarely left her side, and Ayla seemed comforted to have the dog nearby. To my relief, the more time we spent together, the more Ayla opened up to me.
She told me she was only sleeping three or four hours a night and the constant fatigue made it difficult to focus on school. She also felt anxious most of the time. Hearing what she’d been going through gutted me. Why hadn’t I done more earlier? I’d known my daughter was suffering.
“Mom, you were dealing with your own stuff,” Ayla reminded me as she ate some rolled grape leaves stuffed with rice and lamb that I made for her.Binti, ever hopeful of being treated to some scraps, sat alertly by Ayla’s chair. “Not just Dad’s accident but then everything with the secret house.”
I added a few more rolls to her plate. “Thank you for letting me off the hook, but one of a mother’s primary roles is to protect her children from harm, and I’ve done a lousy job of that.”
“We’re pretty much grown up,” she reminded me. “You can’t protect us forever.”
“Maybe, but I’ll never stop trying.”
She put her plate aside. I was satisfied to see that she’d eaten reasonably well. “You still believe in Dad? That he didn’t cheat?”
“I do.” I told her about Lizzie and the stalker. “The main reason Dad helped Lizzie is because he was there when Lizzie’s father died and that bonded them.”
Her eyes rounded. “What?”
I chose my words carefully, explaining how Lizzie’s father had tripped and hit his head on the hearth, a death that was ruled accidental. Ayla probably needed to know at least part of the truth in order to begin healing her emotional wounds.
“So,” I said after sharing a sanitized version of events, “that’s why Dad helped Lizzie out when she told him she was being stalked, because of what they’d been through together as teenagers.”
“But why keep it a secret from you?”
“Lizzie was afraid that I might blab and that the stalker would somehow find her. She wanted as few people as possible to know about the house.”
She set her mouth. “Dad still should have told you.”
“I agree. According to Lizzie, he intended to share everything with me right before he died. That’s why he saw her that night.” I checked my phone. “Come on. It’s time to go or we’ll be late for your appointment.”
Part of ensuring that Ayla was healthy both physically and emotionally involved scheduling time with a grief counselor and our primary care doctor. The first appointment was with Dr. Macias, our family doctor, who’d treated all of us for years. She examined Ayla and spoke to her about her issues.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Dr. Macias said near the end of the appointment. “I’m going to prescribe an antianxiety medicine.”
“OK,” Ayla said.
“How long will she have to take it?” I asked, not knowing anything about medicines used to treat anxiety. “Is it addictive?”
“This is only for the short term,” Dr. Macias reassured us both. “Right now, Ayla is dealing with the aftereffects of trauma and grief. When she is feeling especially anxious or overwhelmed, taking alprazolam will help take the edge off.”
“That sounds good,” Ayla said abruptly. “I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure?” I asked her.
She gave a firm nod. “Yes.”
I had my own misgivings, but I needed to let Ayla do what she thought was best for her.
