Chapter 3 - The Things Sophie Was Afraid to Tell MeMy mother arrived at 7:35 p.m.
Linda Collins was sixty-seven, retired, and the sort of woman who brought food to people when she didn't know what else to say. She came through the front door carrying a casserole dish and a canvas bag full of groceries.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Then she saw Sophie.
My mother stopped.
Sophie stood beside the kitchen table in her oversized sweatshirt, holding the pink notebook. She looked so small that Linda's expression changed before she spoke.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She opened her arms.
Sophie walked into them without hesitation.
That was when I noticed something else.
My daughter hadn't hugged me the way she usually did when I came home from work. She had clung to me with the desperation of someone checking whether I was real.
With Grandma, she let herself relax.
Linda looked over Sophie's head at me.
"What happened?"
I handed her my phone.
She read the screenshot in silence. By the time she reached the final message, her jaw was tight.
"Where is Dani?"
"Shopping center."
"Her mother doesn't live there."
"I know."
My mother set the phone down carefully, as though putting it down too hard might shatter what little control she had left.
"I'll stay with the children tonight."
"Thank you."
"Andrew, this isn't normal."
"I know."
"No." She looked straight at me. "I need you to understand what I mean. This isn't a mistake. This isn't somebody forgetting the time while visiting a sick relative. This woman decided a ten-year-old could take care of a toddler for an entire day, then told her not to tell you."
I didn't answer.
Linda came closer and lowered her voice.
"Are you sure you know what has been happening in your own house?"
That question stayed with me.
After she settled Mason into his playpen, I sat with Sophie at the kitchen table. I didn't bring up the screenshot again. I didn't want her to feel she was being interrogated.
Instead, I asked her to tell me about an ordinary Saturday.
She looked confused.
"What do you mean?"
"What usually happens when I'm working?"
She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
"Dani makes a list."
"What kind of list?"
"Things to do."
"Can I see one?"
She hesitated, then went upstairs and returned with a sheet of paper.
It was folded into quarters.
Across the top, Dani had written SATURDAY RESPONSIBILITIES.
The list included feeding Mason breakfast, changing diapers, washing his cups, keeping him in the living room, putting away toys, preparing his lunch from containers in the refrigerator, and getting him ready for his nap.
At the bottom, three instructions had been underlined.
Do not call Dad unless it's an emergency.
Do not make a mess.
Do not complain about being tired.
There was a small box beside each task, and every box had been checked in Sophie's careful handwriting.
"Who checks these off?" I asked.
"I do."
"Does Dani check them when she comes home?"
"Sometimes."
"What happens if something isn't finished?"
Sophie stared at the paper.
"She gets disappointed."
"Does she yell?"
"Not always."
That was not an answer.
I leaned forward.
"You can tell me the truth, Sophie. I'm not going to be angry with you."
She looked at me for a long time.
"Sometimes she says I'm making your life harder."
My throat tightened.
"What does that mean?"
"She says you already work too much because you have to pay for everything. And if I need things, you have to work more."
I felt sick.
"Sweetheart, I work because I'm your father. You aren't making my life harder."
"But she says I'm not your real responsibility anymore. Because you have Mason now, too."
The room went utterly still.
I heard the refrigerator humming. The clock ticking. Mason babbling in the next room.
Anything but my own heartbeat.
"Did she say that today?"
Sophie shook her head.
"A few weeks ago."
"How many times?"
"I don't know."
I wanted to ask why she hadn't told me. I wanted to ask why she had accepted such a cruel idea about herself.
But every version of that question sounded like blaming her for not protecting herself from an adult.
So I took her hand.
"Do you remember when Mom used to tell you that you could always come to me?"
Sophie's face crumpled.
"Yes."
"That's still true. It will always be true."
She started crying quietly.
"I didn't want you to be sad again."
I didn't understand at first.
Then she whispered, "Because Mom died. I thought if I was good enough, you wouldn't lose anybody else."
I pulled her close.
My daughter had spent nearly three years believing that being the perfect child might protect her father from grief.
And I had been so busy surviving my own grief that I hadn't seen the cost.
That night, after Sophie fell asleep in my mother's room, I returned to the kitchen.
The pink notebook lay open beside the crib.
I turned to the back pages, expecting more lists.
Instead, I found a drawing.
It showed three figures standing beside a house. A tall man. A little girl. A toddler holding a balloon.
The man was labeled DAD.
The toddler was MASON.
The little girl was SOPHIE.
Above the house, Sophie had written a question in tiny letters.
Will Dad still want me when I grow up?
I sat alone beside that drawing for a long time.
Then my phone rang.
It was Dani.
"Andrew," she said brightly, as if nothing had happened. "I'm just leaving my mom's. Everything okay at home?"
I looked at the drawing.
Then at the notebook.
Then at the clock.
It was 8:12 p.m.
"Where have you been, Dani?"
May you like
A brief silence followed.
And for the first time since I'd known my wife, she didn't answer immediately.
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