"With somebody who knows how to take care of difficult children."
The father inhaled slowly.
Then he held her closer.
"No one is sending you away."
She looked up.
"This is your home," he continued. "You belong here. You always have."
She searched his face.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He kissed her forehead.
"And sweetheart?"
"Yes?"
"You are not a difficult child."
She nodded slowly.
Then she asked him to stay until she fell asleep.
He did.
He sat beside her bed for nearly forty minutes, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing.
When he finally stood, he noticed something under the desk.
A small plastic container.
He crouched.
Inside were several unopened snack crackers, a wrapped granola bar, and two little packets of raisins.
He stared at them.
They had been arranged carefully beneath a folded washcloth.
A private emergency supply.
His daughter had been hiding food in her bedroom.
The father sat back on his heels.
For a long moment, he couldn't move.
Then he quietly returned the container to its hiding place.
He would make sure she never needed it again.
But he wouldn't take it away before she was ready.
The boy was still awake when the father entered his room.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, holding a small toy truck.
The room was larger than his stepsister's.
Colorful posters covered the walls.
A basketball hoop hung from the closet door.
Several expensive toy sets occupied a shelving unit.
The father noticed those things in a way he never had before.
"Hey, buddy."
The boy looked up.
"Hi."
"Can't sleep?"
The boy shrugged.
The father sat in the desk chair.
"Want to talk?"
The boy looked toward the hallway.
"Am I in trouble?"
"No."
"Mom's mad."
"I know."
"She's really mad."
The father nodded.
"That's between the adults."
The boy stared at the toy truck.
Then asked, "Is she mad because I didn't eat the chicken?"
The father felt a familiar tightening in his chest.
"No."
The boy looked doubtful.
"She told me I should be grateful."
"There's nothing wrong with being grateful."
The father leaned forward.