Mark began supervised visitation at a family services center on the edge of town. Two hours on Saturday mornings in a room with bright toys, laminated rules, and a monitor who took notes. The first time I drove Lily there, she held my hand so tightly on the walk from the parking lot that my fingers hurt.
“You don’t have to be brave for me,” I told her.
She looked up. “I know.”
But she was anyway.
At first Mark tried to be charming in those visits. He brought coloring books, a dollhouse set, overcompensating gifts. He used his soft dad voice. He asked about school. He acted as though the courtroom had been an unfortunate misunderstanding rather than a revelation. Children are merciful in strange ways. Lily did not reject him. She also did not yield. She spoke politely, watched carefully, and came back to the car exhausted.
“How was it?” I would ask.
“Fine.”
Just fine. The loneliest word.
Weeks became months.