CHAPTER 2
I carried Lily upstairs.
Claire followed us.
“Ethan, stop.”
I didn’t.
“This is becoming absurd.”
I kept walking.
“Where, sweetheart?”
Lily pointed toward the second floor.
“The blue room.”
My steps slowed.
The blue room was one of several guest bedrooms we rarely used.
Claire had recently begun keeping it locked.
She said she stored wedding supplies there.
Boxes.
Gifts.
Decorations.
I had never questioned it.
Why would I?
That question would haunt me for months.
We reached the door.
It was locked.
Claire stopped behind me.
“There’s nothing in there that concerns Lily.”
I turned.
“Then open it.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I don’t have the key.”
Lily whispered into my neck.
“Her pocket.”
Claire looked at her.
The look lasted half a second.
Lily immediately buried her face against me.
Something hot and dangerous rose inside me.
“Take the key out of your pocket.”
Claire laughed nervously.
“This is insane.”
“Claire.”
“I said I don’t have—”
“Take it out.”
For the first time since I had known her, Claire looked uncertain of me.
Slowly, she reached into her dress pocket.
A small brass key appeared between her fingers.
I held out my hand.
She didn’t move.
“Ethan, please think about what you’re doing.”
“I am.”
“You’re letting a four-year-old manipulate you because she’s upset.”
Lily flinched.
That was enough.
I stepped toward Claire.
“Give me the key.”
She dropped it into my palm.
I unlocked the door.
The room smelled like cardboard.
Wedding boxes covered one wall.
Flowers.
Ribbon.
Place cards.
Nothing immediately looked unusual.
Lily lifted her head.
“There.”
She pointed toward the closet.
I opened it.
At first, I saw clothes.
Then boxes.
Then a plastic storage bin shoved behind several garment bags.
Lily tightened her arms around me.
“The purple box.”
I knelt and pulled it forward.
Claire appeared in the doorway.
“Ethan, don’t.”
I looked at her.
Those two words told me more than any explanation ever could.
I opened the lid.
Drawings.
Dozens of them.
Maybe hundreds.
Crayon pictures.
Finger paintings.
Construction paper covered with stickers.
Every one had been made by Lily.
Daddy and me.
Daddy’s airplane.
Daddy comes home.
Daddy and Lily at the zoo.
Daddy and Mommy in heaven.
That one stopped me.
Three stick figures stood beneath a yellow sun.
One was me.
One was Lily.
Above us was a woman with wings.
Amelia.
My wife had died when Lily was two.
Cancer had taken her in nine brutal months.
For a long time afterward, Lily drew Amelia with angel wings.
I had always encouraged it.
I had never seen this picture.
There was writing at the bottom in an adult hand.
MISS YOU DADDY.
I looked at Lily.
“You made these for me?”
She nodded.
“All of them?”
Another nod.
My throat closed.
“When?”
“When you were gone.”
I picked up another.
A house.
Me at the front door.
Lily running toward me.
Then another.
My airplane landing.
Another.
My face surrounded by hearts.
Some had dates.
February.
March.
April.
May.
Months of drawings.
Months when I had wondered why Lily stopped making pictures for me.
I had assumed she was growing out of it.
Claire had told me not to make a big deal out of every stage.
Children changed quickly, she said.
Now I knew.
My daughter had never stopped.
Claire had simply made sure I never saw them.
“Why?” I asked.
Lily lowered her eyes.
“She said you didn’t want them.”
I couldn’t speak.
Claire stepped forward.
“That is not what I said.”
Lily recoiled.
I stood instantly.
“Back up.”
“Ethan—”
“Back up.”
Claire stopped.
Lily whispered, “She said Daddy has important things.”
I closed my eyes.
Only for a second.
“What else?”
“She said I make you tired.”
Claire shook her head.
“No.”
“She said you go away because I’m noisy.”
“Lily.”
My voice nearly failed.
“Did she tell you that?”
Lily nodded.
“And if I’m bad, you won’t come back.”
I turned toward Claire.
Her face had become defensive.
“She misunderstood.”
“How does a four-year-old misunderstand that?”
“She’s sensitive.”
“You told my daughter I leave because of her?”
“No.”
“Then why does she believe it?”
Claire crossed her arms.
“Because children invent things.”
Lily whispered something.
“What?”
“She wrote it.”
Claire’s expression changed.
I looked back at the box.
Under the drawings was a notebook.
Black cover.
No title.
I opened it.
The first few pages contained wedding notes.
Guest numbers.
Florist prices.
Dinner options.
Then the handwriting changed.
Lists.
Monday — crying after nap.
Tuesday — refused vegetables.
Wednesday — asked for Ethan six times.
Beside each entry were numbers.
5 minutes.
10 minutes.
20 minutes.
I kept turning pages.
Consequences.
No dessert.
Remove rabbit.
Stand in corner.
No bedtime story.
Polish shoes.
Practice obedience.
My hands began shaking.
One line had been underlined twice.
Stop rewarding crying with attention.
Another:
She needs to learn Ethan cannot always rescue her.
I felt as though the floor moved beneath me.
I looked at Lily.
She had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
“Baby,” I whispered, “what does practice obedience mean?”
Claire stepped forward.
“That notebook is private.”
I looked at her.
“What does it mean?”
“It’s parenting.”
“You are not her parent.”
The words came out colder than anything I had ever said.
Claire stared at me.
“I have raised her for almost a year while you’ve been running around the country.”
The accusation landed because part of it was true.
I had been gone.
Too much.
I knew it.
Claire knew I knew it.
She took one step closer.
“You asked me to help.”
“I asked you to love her.”
“I do.”
Lily tightened her arms around me.
I looked down at the notebook.
Then I saw something beneath it.
A small pink backpack.
Lily’s old preschool bag.
I pulled it out.
Inside were envelopes.
All addressed to me.
DADDY.
DAD.
TO DADDY.
Some had stickers.
Some had little hearts.
One had dried tears on the paper.
I opened it.
There were only three words inside, written shakily in purple crayon.
COME HOME PLEASE.
I could no longer feel my hands.
Behind me, Claire said quietly, “Ethan.”
I stood.
I carried Lily toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you.”
Her face changed.
“You’re overreacting.”
I stopped beside her.
“No.”
My voice was calm now.
May you like
That seemed to frighten her more than anger would have.
“I think I’m finally reacting exactly enough.”
