"She was probably busy, baby," I say, though I can't hide the disappointment, or the disapproval in my voice.
"Yeah," Hannah whispers. "She's probably busy."
I crouch in front of her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Do you want to go get some ice cream?" I ask, trying to lift her spirits, desperate to shift her focus away from yet another letdown. "We could get sprinkles. Or gummy bears. Whatever you want."
I've been using this tactic for years. First with Beth—back when she’d ask about her sister, her lower lip trembling, tears just on the edge.
"I want Dani," she'd say, her voice small and unsure.
"I’ll take you to see your sister as soon as she gets permission," I’d promise, wondering when that day would come. According to the group home staff, Dani was struggling with major behavioral issues that had to be addressed before visitors were allowed. I did my best to ease Beth’s worries, and back then, ice cream always seemed to do the trick.
But not today.
"Why doesn’t Mommy want to see us?"
Hannah’s question yanks me back to the present.
"She works long hours," I say gently. "She sees you whenever she’s able."
“She's never able,” Hannah whispers, her bottom lip pushing out. “Never.”
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. “I’m getting chocolate. How about you?”
“Can I get vanilla and strawberry?”
“With sprinkles on top?”
“Yeah!”
I might not be winning the war, but today, one small victory is enough.
Chapter 11
Danielle
I’m sitting on the couch when Tina walks in at midnight.
I’m not watching TV. Not reading. Just sitting—staring out the window, wondering when I’ll get to see Izzy again.
“You’re still up,” Tina says. Then, seeing my face, her voice softens. “Is everything okay?”
“They painted a picture of me that wasn’t true,” I begin. “They made me out to be unstable—like I was some kind of threat to my own sister.”
“Who?” Tina asks, her voice calm but concerned. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, knowing I’m not making any sense but too overwhelmed to care how irrational I sound. “They recommended a closed adoption… said I had behavioral problems.”
“Who?” she asks again, more firmly this time.
“I don’t know!” I shout, slapping my palm against my forehead like I can knock the lies loose—beat the ache out of my head. “I don’t know!”
“Okay,” she says gently. “Slow down, Elle. I want to understand, but you have to help me out here.”
“It’s all in the report,” I say, reaching for my laptop. I open the email and motion for her to sit and read.
As she settles in front of the screen, I bite a nail and retreat to the couch, my chest tight. I sit in silence, watching her, waiting for it to sink in—waiting for her to understand.
I can see the tension building in Tina—her jaw tightening, the temples in her forehead throbbing.
