She grabbed her backpack. At the door, she stopped.
“I love Dad,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“And sometimes I like being there. I like painting those ugly birdhouses he buys.”
“I know.”
Her shoulders tensed. “I just don’t like who I have to be there.”
Then she left.
At nine, Lloyd was sitting on a bench by the library, twisting his hands together.
“Talk,” I said.
He stared toward the playground. “Marissa thinks Hannah needs… refinement.”
“She’s a child, not furniture.”
“She says Hannah hides behind being messy.”
“Hannah gets paint on her sleeves because she’s happy when she paints. That isn’t mess. That’s a memory.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked ashamed.
I placed the torn fabric between us. “Tell me how this happened.”
He swallowed. “My mother and sister were coming for lunch. Marissa bought Hannah a lace dress.”
“Hannah hates lace.”
“I told her that.”
“But you didn’t stop her.”
“Hannah refused to change. Marissa said she needed to look presentable. Hannah backed into the bathroom cabinet and her blouse caught on the hinge.”
“And the stain?”
“Rust.”
Relief hit first.
Then anger.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Hannah begged me not to.”
“She is a child. She should not be carrying adult secrets because you’re scared of conflict.”
“I was trying to keep the peace.”
“For who?”
He didn’t answer.
I leaned closer. “Why does she shower every time she comes home?”
Lloyd rubbed his forehead.
“Say it.”
“Marissa sprays perfume before guests come.”
“She sprays Hannah?”
“She calls it a finishing touch.”
“She is not decoration, Lloyd.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t. Not if you let it happen.”
His face tightened. “Marissa says Hannah smells like your house.”
I froze.
“Like that’s dirty?”
He said nothing.
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I picked up the fabric. “You let another woman teach our daughter that she needs to wash me off.”
“Mindy—”
“No. You showed Hannah that Marissa’s comfort matters more than her dignity.”
His eyes reddened. “I messed up.”
“Yes,” I said. “You did.”
That Sunday, Lloyd texted and told me not to come over.
I went anyway.
I used the key he had never asked me to return and walked through the front door.
“Hannah?” I called.
No answer.
I found her upstairs in the guest room, standing in front of a stiff floral dress hanging from the closet door. Her torn blue blouse lay on the bed. Her hands were clenched.
“Mom?” Panic flashed across her face. “Why are you here?”
