Chapter 9: The Figurines She Arranged
Two months passed.
Patricia did not sue.
The lawyer's letters stopped.
She called Daniel twice.
He answered both times, spoke to her briefly, and did not put her on speaker.
He told me afterward that she had asked about Mia both times.
He had told her Mia was fine.
She did not ask to see her.
The five families stayed in contact.
Not dramatically — no group chats full of updates, no ongoing legal strategy.
Just the quiet knowledge that they were all connected now, that the silence between them had been the thing that had allowed it to continue, and that the silence was over.
Beth's daughter Emma started swim lessons and apparently loved them with a ferocity that made Beth laugh every time she described it.
Marcus brought Lily to visit once, on a Saturday afternoon in early spring.
Mia showed her the backyard and the neighbor's dog and the small garden patch where she was attempting to grow strawberries.
They were six and six, and they disappeared into the yard for two hours and came back muddy and satisfied.
Marcus and I sat on the back porch while Daniel made coffee.
"How is she?" I asked.
"Really."
"Better," he said.
"She still doesn't love parking garages.
But she's better." He looked out at the yard where the two girls were crouched over something in the dirt.
"Lily asked me once if Grandma Patricia liked her."
"What did you say?"
"I said some grown-ups have a hard time showing love the right way, and that it was never Lily's fault." He paused.
"She seemed to accept that.
Kids are practical.
They want an explanation that makes sense and then they want to move on."
"Mia too," I said.
At Mia's sixth session, Dr.
Calloway invited me in for the last ten minutes.
Mia had arranged the small figurines on the shelf into a scene she wanted to show me.
There was a small wooden house.
In front of it stood a mother figure and a father figure and a child figure, all three close together.
Off to the side, separated by a clear gap, stood another figure alone.
"That's Grandma Patricia," Mia said, pointing to the lone figure.
"She's over there because she made a bad choice.
But she's not gone.
She's just over there for now."
I looked at the arrangement for a moment.
"That makes sense," I said.
"Dr.
Calloway says people can make bad choices and still be people," Mia said.
"But you still have to have a consequence.
Because otherwise they don't learn."
"That's right."
Mia considered the scene.
Then she moved the Patricia figure a fraction of an inch closer to the house.
Not close.
But slightly less far.
"Maybe someday," she said.
"If she learns."
She looked up at me to see if that was okay.
"Maybe someday," I said.
She nodded, satisfied, and began rearranging the other figures into something new.
On the drive home she asked if we could get a dog.
I said we'd talk about it.
She said that meant yes.
She was right.
---
That evening Daniel and I sat on the back porch after Mia was asleep.
The yard was dark and quiet.
He had his coffee.
I had mine.
"She moved the figure closer," he said.
I had told him on the way home.
"A little."
"She's more generous than I am right now."
"She's six," I said.
"She still believes people can learn."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Do you?"
I thought about the voicemail.
The coat in the handbag.
The five names on the notepad.
The thing Patricia had said in the car before she walked away.
"I believe Mia is safe," I said.
"I believe she knows she's easy to love.
I believe she'll grow up knowing that without question." I looked at him.
"That's enough for right now."
He reached over and took my hand.
In the yard, the strawberry plants Mia had put in were small and uncertain, barely holding on against the late cold.
But they were there.
She checked on them every morning before school, crouching down to look at them at eye level, reporting back on their progress with the seriousness of a scientist.
That morning she had come inside and announced: "One of them is definitely going to make it."
She said it like it was the best news she'd heard all week.
Maybe it was.
---
Some children are told, in small ways and large ones, that they are the kind who are hard to love.
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If you've ever had to help a child — or yourself — unlearn that lie, share your story in the comments.
Someone reading this needs to know they are not alone.
