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“Me.” She took the pencil from my hand and added it to the row. “And now, they’re fixed.”

“Thank goodness.”

Poppy glanced up at me with one of her looks, letting me know she didn’t approve of me making jokes about such important matters. But she didn’t speak of it. She simply picked up her pencil and asked, “What are we working on today?”

“I was about to ask you the same.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re the therapist. It’s your job to make the assignment.”

“You’re a little bossy for a six-year-old.”

“Wouldn’t have to be bossy if you would just tell me what we were doing.” She thought for a second before adding, “So, what’s it going to be?”

“How about we both draw today?” I pulled out an extra piece of sketch paper as I told her, “Let’s draw our homes ten years from now.”

“Hmm.”

I thought she'd argue, but instead, she smiled and got to work. I’d learned pretty quickly that the best way to get Poppy to talk was to not ask her to talk. Instead, I would give her something to draw, and she would tell me everything I wanted to know and more.

Sometimes it took her five minutes to open up. Other times, it took forty-five or more. I enjoyed my time with her, and as long as she was improving, the pace didn’t matter.

I started on my sketch, and after a moment, I glanced over at her paper and smiled when I saw that she was drawing a house. It had four windows, a red front door, and a chimney with tiny puffs of smoke hovering above. I thought it was an impressive creative element for a six-year-old, but I knew better than to mention it.

When she started adding flowers, I leaned over and whispered, “Those are pretty.”

“I know.”

“You seem pretty confident.”

“I have to be.”

The words came out so casually that I almost missed them. But I didn’t. I had to be quicker on my feet than that, especially with a child like Poppy. “Why’s that?”

“Somebody has to know what they’re doing.”

My chest tightened. The precious little girl had learned far too early that adults weren’t always reliable. Both of her parents struggled with addiction, and often forgot that they even had a daughter, much less checked to see if she was fed or cared for. Poppy was taken from their home just over a year ago when they’d gone off on a bender and left her home alone for more than a week.

The social worker in charge of her case reached out, and after she explained the situation, she asked if I could work with her. She made it clear that they didn’t have the funds to cover the cost of the sessions, but I didn’t mind. I welcomed the opportunity to help a child who’d been through so much.

When she came for her first appointment, I was expecting her to be quiet and reserved, and she was, for all of five minutes. It took her that long to look around my studio and decide whether this was going to be a positive or negative experience for her. I didn’t realize what was going through her head until she finally said, “You’re kind of tall for an art teacher.”

I smiled and told her, “Well, I’m not an art teacher. I’m an art therapist.”

“You teach kids how to paint.”

“Yes.”

“And to do pottery.”

“Yes, that too.”

“Then, you’re a teacher.”

It had been over a year since that day, and she was still just as fiery as she was back then. Only now, she argued with me about colored pencils and watercolors. She complained about school and even how the people across the street hadn’t mowed their lawn. She had opinions about everything, and I took them willingly.

I would take the bossiness, the stubbornness, and every bit of attitude she threw my way if it meant she felt safe enough to open up to me.

I turned my sketch paper so she could see my house and asked, “What do you think I should add?”