“I will recommend supervised visits only, mandatory grief counseling, no trust supervision, and no conversations with Olivia about William’s return, inheritance, or custody.”
Outside the building, Patty stood by the curb.
“Allie,” she called after me.
I stopped walking, but I didn’t turn back.
“I miss him,” she whispered.
“I know,” I replied. “Me too.”
“I never meant to hurt Olivia,” Patty said quietly. “I just wanted a part of my son.”
I looked back at her, exhausted.
“But you hurt her.”
A month later, Olivia mentioned Clara while I was brushing her hair before daycare. The comb caught on a knot, and she winced.
“Can Clara just cut the matted parts?”
I gently laid the brush down. “Only if you want me to.”
“I want it to stop hurting.”
So we went back to the hair salon.
Clara crouched down beside the chair. “You’re in charge today, okay?”
Olivia climbed onto the chair with her rabbit in her lap. I stood beside her, my hand open.
Clara delicately lifted a curl. “Just this?”
Olivia looked at me.
“It’s up to you,” I said gently.
The scissors opened.
Olivia squeezed my fingers tightly, but she didn’t cry out.
“Mommy,” she whispered, “do I still look like myself?”
I kissed the top of her head.
“More than ever.”
That night, we placed the trimmed curl inside William’s memory box.
“Does Daddy still love me?”
“Always,” I whispered. “Even when you’re all grown up.”
And this time, she believed me.
