Not in the chair.
The floor.
She was under blankets.
Her hands had been treated with a gentle moisturizer and wrapped loosely per nurse's advice.
She looked tiny.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Is Renee coming back?”
“I don't know.”
“Are Malik and Zoe?”
“I don't know.”
She looked sad.
That mattered too.
Children's attachments do not organize themselves according to adult wrongdoing.
She loved them.
Especially Zoe.
“Did I break the family?”
I moved onto the bed immediately.
“No.”
“Because I told?”
“No.”
“If I didn't tell—”
“Nia.”
I waited until she looked at me.
“Telling the truth does not break healthy things.”
She blinked.
I continued:
“If something breaks because truth was said, then there was already a crack.”
“Okay?”
She nodded.
“Did you know about the camera?”
“No.”
“Zoe did.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Her eyes filled.
“She said you were happy.”
“Who?”
“Renee.”
My jaw tightened.
“She said you were finally happy.”
“And if I complained, maybe you'd get tired.”
“Tired of what?”
“Me.”
I breathed through nose.
Slowly.
Because my anger was not hers to manage.
“Baby.”
I held her face gently.
“I was happy before I met Renee.”
“Because of you.”
“I was sad because your mom died.”
“I was lonely sometimes.”
“But you were never a burden making me unhappy.”
“Never.”
She cried.
I cried.
We stayed awake until midnight.
At one point she asked:
“Can I sleep in your room?”
“Yes.”
She did for three weeks.
The next morning I called work.
I took emergency leave.
Then a family-law attorney.
Then Nia’s pediatrician.