Chapter 4
Isabella did not care about family mythology.
She cared that the bathwater was too warm.
That Bunny—no, different child. Her stuffed bear, Clement—needed washing too.
That dinner should include noodles.
Children return you to scale.
I sat beside her while she ate.
Clean dress.
Wet hair.
No collar.
She looked at me.
“Aunt Victoria pet?”
“No.”
“But picture.”
“She was a little girl.”
“Like me?”
“Yes.”
“Her daddy mean?”
I paused.
“Yes.”
She ate another noodle.
Then:
“Why she do me?”
There it was.
No family history can answer a child’s version of the question cleanly.
“Because sometimes people repeat bad things that happened to them.”
Isabella frowned.
“Why?”
“Because they forget bad is still bad.”
She considered.
Then:
“I remember.”
Three years old.
Better philosophy than half my relatives.
Later she refused to sleep alone.
I stayed.
No talk of bravery.
No demand she face darkness.
She had spent twenty-six minutes inside a wall.
She was allowed company.
At midnight she whispered:
“Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Party family?”
I knew what she meant.
Victoria’s line.
Pets stay out.
“Parties are for whoever is invited.”
“Me invited?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Victoria not?”
I almost laughed.
“Not for a while.”
Satisfied.
She slept.
I sat beside her thinking about every time I had described Victoria as difficult but harmless.
Every time she criticized staff children.
Every time she said young people needed thicker skin.
Every time I let the room laugh because challenging her would create another argument.
There are cruelties we tolerate because they arrive wrapped in personality.
Until a child is behind a wall.
Then suddenly everyone recognizes the pattern.
May you like
I had missed it before the crisis.
That belonged to me.
