Chapter 6
Noah’s paper flowers had a history.
I learned that from Isabella.
He made them whenever adults argued.
Why?
Because once, months earlier, Isabella and Grant were fighting.
Noah came between them with a paper flower.
Grant stopped shouting.
Took it.
For five minutes the room became quiet.
A child learned the wrong lesson.
Flowers stop Daddy from being angry.
So he kept making them.
For Grant.
For Vanessa.
For Isabella.
For me.
Tiny peace offerings.
That explained why he approached his father at the jewelry preview so proudly.
Not just a gift.
A peace ritual.
Vanessa tore it apart.
Not understanding what it meant to him.
Or maybe not caring.
I looked at the torn pieces later.
Simple folds.
Crooked petals.
My crest on one edge.
I felt something heavy settle inside me.
Children invent rituals around adult volatility.
Then adults call them adorable without asking why they repeat them.
I kept the pieces.
Not forever.
Just long enough to understand.
Then Isabella said:
“He made one the night Grant bruised my wrist.”
That ended symbolism.
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The flowers were not cute anymore.
They were evidence of adaptation.
