The stepmother stared.
The attorney spoke quietly.
“I advised him not to confront the situation alone.”
The wife laughed once.
Not humor.
Disbelief.
“You brought a lawyer into our home?”
The husband looked beneath the table.
“My daughter is sitting on the floor while you eat turkey.”
“She is being disciplined.”
His voice finally rose.
“She has no food.”
“She already ate.”
The older girl said:
“No.”
Her mother pointed toward her.
“You do not speak.”
The husband’s eyes moved to his stepdaughter.
“She speaks.”
His wife turned back.
“You have no idea what has been happening while you’re gone.”
“That is becoming very clear.”
“You always take her side.”
“She is eight.”
“She lies.”
“She is eight.”
“She manipulates you.”
“She is eight.”
“You don’t understand.”
The husband crossed the room.
His wife stepped between him and the table.
“Don’t reward this.”
He stared at her.
“Move.”
“If you pick her up now, she learns that every time she cries—”
“Move.”
Something in his voice finally silenced her.
She stepped aside.
He crouched.
The child beneath the table stared at him.
Her lips trembled.
“Dad?”
He held out both hands.
“Come here.”
She did not.
That hurt him more than anything he had seen.
His daughter had always run to him.
When she was three, she used to launch herself from furniture if she saw him enter a room.
At five, she met him at the door every evening.
After her mother died, she sometimes slept outside his bedroom because she was afraid he might disappear too.
Now he was two feet away.
And she was afraid to move without permission.
He looked toward his wife.
She looked away.
Then back to the child.
“You are not in trouble.”
The girl whispered:
“Are you sure?”
His throat closed.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
The girl crawled toward him.
The instant she reached him, he pulled her into his arms.
She broke.
Not crying softly.
Not the controlled tears she had learned to hide.
Her entire body shook.
He lifted her.
She wrapped both arms around his neck.
“I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
“I tried to be good.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“She said you’d send me away.”
The father went completely still.
The stepmother’s face changed.
The older girl covered her mouth.
The father looked over his daughter’s shoulder.
“What?”
The child realized she had said something wrong.
She tightened her grip.
The father whispered:
“What did she tell you?”
The girl shook her head.
“Baby.”
No answer.
“Please.”
The stepmother interrupted.
“This is exactly what I mean. She twists everything.”
The father stood slowly, still holding his daughter.
“What did you tell her?”
His wife folded her arms.
“I told her there were boarding schools for children who couldn’t adjust.”