She nodded.
She was ten.
Long legs.
Almost too old for me to carry comfortably.
I did it anyway.
Her arms went around my neck.
Her hands barely touched me.
I felt how carefully she was holding them.
I carried her upstairs.
Behind me, Renee said:
“You’re making this worse.”
I did not answer.
In Nia’s room, I set her on the bed.
She looked around as though embarrassed to be there.
I found the first-aid box in the hall bathroom.
Then stopped.
“What cleaner did you use?”
She pointed downstairs.
“I’m going to call the nurse line before I put anything on your hands.”
She nodded.
That should have been ordinary.
A father checking skin irritation.
But sitting beside her while a pediatric nurse explained rinsing, moisturizing, and signs requiring urgent care, I realized my hands were trembling.
Not hers.
Mine.
After the call, I filled a basin with cool water and helped her rinse.
She hissed.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“It doesn't have to be okay.”
She stared at me.
That sentence seemed to surprise her.
I continued.
“If it hurts, say it hurts.”
“You don't have to protect anybody from knowing.”
Her eyes filled.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you mad?”
“At you?”
She nodded.
I nearly broke.
“No.”
“I spilled the popcorn.”
“I don't care about popcorn.”
“It was on the rug.”
“We can clean rugs.”
“She said you work too hard for me to ruin things.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Then opened them.
“Nia.”
She looked at me.
“You are worth more than every piece of furniture in this house.”
Her face crumpled.
I pulled her toward me.
She cried into my chest.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
Children who know they are allowed to cry often cry loudly.
Children who have learned crying causes trouble learn silence.
I held her until my shirt became wet near the collar.
Then she whispered:
“Don't send me away.”