And for the first time, I didn't feel compelled to apologize for setting a boundary.
The following morning, Sophia asked whether she could go home.
We were sitting at her grandmother's kitchen table, working on a puzzle. It was a bright Saturday, and sunlight streamed through the windows onto the floor.
She looked up suddenly.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"Can we go to our house?"
I paused.
"Do you miss it?"
She nodded.
"My room."
I smiled gently.
"Of course."
She looked down at the puzzle.
"And my books."
I nodded.
"We can get them."
She hesitated.
"Is Patricia there?"
I took a breath.
"Not right now."
The separation arrangements had begun, and Patricia was staying elsewhere while legal advice and child-safety concerns were addressed. She still had belongings in the house, and the practical details were being handled carefully.
Sophia looked relieved.
Then she asked, "Can Grandma come?"
I smiled.
"Absolutely."
That afternoon, we returned together.
I opened the front door.
Sophia stopped in the hallway.
For a moment, she looked around as though the house had become unfamiliar.
Then she glanced toward the laundry room.
I noticed.
I crouched beside her.
"Would you like to go upstairs first?"
She nodded.
We walked to her bedroom.
It looked the same as before.
Pale yellow walls.
A neatly made bed.
A shelf filled with books.
A small desk beside the window.
But as Sophia moved toward her closet, I realized how carefully Patricia had organized everything according to her own preferences.
There were no drawings taped to the walls.
No scattered toys.
No little collections of objects that meant something only to a child.
Everything was clean.
Everything was orderly.
And the room barely looked lived in.
Sophia opened a drawer.
Then she looked toward me.
"Can I take out my crayons?"
I smiled.
"Of course."
She hesitated.
"Even the messy ones?"
I nodded.
"Especially those."
My mother-in-law stood in the doorway watching us.
Her eyes filled.
Sophia took out a small box of crayons.
Then she looked toward the desk.
"Can I put my drawings on the wall again?"
I swallowed.
"Yes, sweetheart."
She smiled.
Then she held up a picture of a yellow house surrounded by flowers.
I recognized it immediately.
It was a drawing she'd made with her mother years earlier.
I felt a sharp ache in my chest.
"Where did you find that?"
Sophia looked surprised.
"It was under my bed."
I approached.
She held it toward me.
"Patricia said it was too old."
I took the paper carefully.
The colors had faded, and one corner was bent.