Patty leaned forward. “That was private.”
“It was in my four-year-old’s backpack.”
Ms. Bishop picked up the photo and read aloud, “Don’t forget who you belong to, Olivia.”
No one spoke.
“That was private.”
Mr. Wallace slid his paper across the table. “I can confirm that Patty contacted my office about gaining control of Olivia’s trust if Allie could be presented as unstable.”
Ms. Bishop looked at Patty. “Did you tell Olivia that her father was coming back?”
Patty’s eyes filled. “I told her he was still with us.”
“No,” I said. “You told her he would find her. You told her not to cut her hair because he might not recognize her.”
Patty gripped William’s picture. “You packed away his shoes like he was never coming home.”
Patty’s eyes filled.
“Because he isn’t, Patty,” I said gently. “William is dead. Nothing we say to Olivia is going to bring him back. You’re hurting my child now.”
She flinched. I hated saying it, but truth was the only safe place left.
“You wanted her hair, her room, her clothes, and her grief frozen in place,” I said. “Because that’s where you wanted William to stay.”
Patty’s face twisted. “You have everything, Allie. What did I get?”
I looked at my husband’s photo, then back at her.
“You have everything, Allie.”
“You got grief,” I said. “So did I. But I didn’t hand mine over to a child to carry.”
Ms. Bishop closed the folder. “I’ll recommend this agreement for court approval: supervised visits only, grief counseling, no trust control, and no discussion of William returning, inheritance, or custody with Olivia.”
Outside, Patty stood by the curb.
“Allie,” she called.
I stopped, but I didn’t walk back.
“I miss him,” she said.
“I know,” I replied. “So do I.”
I didn’t walk back.
“I didn’t mean to hurt Olivia,” Patty said. “I just wanted a part of my son.”
I looked back at her, tired to my bones. “But you did.”
A month later, Olivia brought Clara up while I was brushing her hair before preschool. The comb caught, and she winced.
“Can Clara cut just the tangly part?”
I set the brush down. “Only if you want.”
“I want it not to hurt anymore.”
So we went back.
“I didn’t mean to hurt Olivia.”
Clara crouched beside the chair. “You’re in charge today, okay?”
Olivia climbed up with Bunny in her lap. I stood beside her with my hand open.
Clara lifted one curl. “This much?”
Olivia looked at me.
“Your choice,” I said.
The scissors opened. Olivia squeezed my fingers, but she didn’t scream.
“You’re in charge today, okay?”
“Mommy,” she whispered, “do I still look like me?”
I kissed her head. “More than ever.”
That night, we placed the curl in William’s memory box.
“Daddy still loves me?”
“Always. Even when you’re all grown up.”
And this time, she believed me.