She had sat back down by then, the rabbit in her lap again, her face pale and exhausted as if courage had used up all the color in her. She looked smaller than she had standing there. Children do after enormous acts. Their bravery leaves the room before their bodies remember they are small.
I knelt in front of her right there beside the bench.
“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes filled at once, those clear blue eyes that had always seemed too open for a world like this.
“Because you were already sad,” she said. “I didn’t want you to feel worse.”
A fresh wave of tears hit me so hard I had to bow my head for a second.
“I thought if the judge saw it, he would know,” she continued. “And then Daddy couldn’t make me leave you.”
I pulled her into my arms with a sound that was half sob, half laugh. She wrapped herself around my neck and held on.
“You protected us,” I whispered into her hair.
She leaned back just enough to touch my cheek with one small hand.
“Mommy,” she said solemnly, “you’re safe now.”