The father remembered when this room had been full of colorful drawings and stuffed animals. His daughter used to create elaborate little worlds on the carpet, arranging dolls into families and making blankets from old pillowcases.
Now the room looked like somewhere a child was afraid to disturb.
She sat on the edge of the bed wearing her pajamas.
Her curly black hair was gathered into two loose puffs, and she held a stuffed rabbit against her chest.
The father recognized the rabbit immediately.
Her mother had given it to her during a hospital visit years earlier.
One ear was crooked.
The fabric around its nose had worn thin.
His daughter had slept with it almost every night since.
He sat beside her.
"How's my girl?"
"Good."
The answer came too quickly.
He smiled gently.
"Really?"
She nodded.
Then looked at his hands.
The father waited.
Finally, he said, "I'm sorry about dinner."
She hugged the rabbit tighter.
"It's okay."
"No, sweetheart. It wasn't okay."
She looked at him.
"I should've cleaned faster."
He felt his heart sink.
"Cleaning your room has nothing to do with whether you get dinner."
She nodded.
He could tell she was trying to remember his words rather than believe them.
He took a breath.
"Has something like that happened before?"
She looked toward the closed door.
The father noticed.
He lowered his voice.
"You're safe talking to me."
She stared at the rabbit.
Then she whispered, "Sometimes."
He stayed still.
"What happens?"
She swallowed.
"Sometimes I get the little plate."
He frowned.
"What little plate?"
"The one with the flowers."
He pictured a small ceramic plate with pink flowers around the edge.
It had been part of a mismatched set left by his first wife.
The plate was intended for snacks, not full meals.
"What happens when you get that plate?"
His daughter shifted uncomfortably.
"It means I was difficult."
The father stared at her.
"Who told you that?"
She didn't answer.
He tried again.
"Does your stepmother give you that plate?"
A small nod.
He felt anger rising.