She hadn’t been difficult.
She hadn’t been dramatic.
She hadn’t misunderstood.
She had been eight years old and had been placed in the middle of adult problems she never should have been asked to carry.
My husband admitted that he had known his mother was pressuring our daughter to take sides.
He said he thought it would stop.
He said he didn’t believe it was serious.
He said he was sorry.
Maybe he was.
But being sorry didn’t erase what happened.
It didn’t erase the fear in our daughter’s face when Grandma’s name was mentioned.
It didn’t erase the drawing.
It didn’t erase the word “Good.”
And it certainly didn’t make me forget the moment my daughter walked across that exam room, took her backpack from her father, and placed it in my hands.
That was the moment I understood something.
