Lucy started therapy a week later. The therapist was a warm woman with soft hair and an office filled with toys and art supplies. Lucy sat stiffly at first, eyes scanning, body ready to bolt. The therapist didn’t push. She offered crayons. She offered a small stuffed turtle. She spoke gently about feelings as if feelings were ordinary, safe things to hold.
Lucy didn’t talk about the car the first session. She colored a picture of our house with heavy dark lines around the windows.
The second session, she asked the therapist, “Do moms always come back?”
The therapist looked at me, and I saw something like sorrow in her eyes.
“Yes,” I said immediately, leaning forward. “Yes, baby. I always come back.”
Lucy’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.
At night, she started asking questions she’d never asked before. Questions that came from a place I hated: the place where a child tries to make sense of danger.
“Why did they leave me?” she asked one evening as I tucked her in.
I swallowed. “Because they made a bad choice,” I said carefully.
“Did I do something bad?” she whispered.