Chapter 10
Priscilla asked about Desmond after a week.
“Where Dez?”
Children shorten names and consequences equally.
“He doesn’t live here.”
“Wedding?”
“No wedding.”
She looked at my bare hand.
Then:
“Because cake?”
Hard.
“Not because cake.”
“Because he mean?”
“Because he made choices that weren’t safe for us.”
She thought.
“Me too?”
“Especially you.”
Her eyes lowered.
Then:
“He said replaced.”
My throat tightened.
I pulled her closer.
“You are not being replaced.”
“New baby?”
There.
Someone had said more than I knew.
“What new baby?”
She shrugged.
“Dez said maybe you get better kid.”
Everything inside me went cold again.
Not in anger at her.
At him.
I called Desmond later.
He admitted it.
One night, frustrated because Priscilla refused to sleep, he muttered that someday we might have a child who listened.
She remembered.
Three-year-olds remember the sentences adults wish were too small to matter.
I told him:
“You don’t contact her.”
He cried.
No argument.
Good.
Then I returned to my daughter.
I did not tell her she was the best child.
That would turn worth into comparison too.
I said:
“There is no better kid.”
She frowned.
“Some kids bite.”
Fair.
“Still.”
She accepted that.
May you like
Then asked for cake.
Scale restored.
