Chapter 6
We moved in September.
Not far.
Just across town.
A small house with a yellow front door, a fenced yard, and no kitchen tiles like the old ones.
Sophie picked the door color.
“Yellow means awake,” she said.
I did not know what that meant.
I painted it yellow anyway.
Mom moved into the guest room for the first month.
She said it was to help.
I knew it was to watch me.
I let her.
I deserved watching.
Sophie’s new bedroom had lavender walls and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
We framed a photo of Emily beside her bed.
Not hidden.
Not used as a weapon.
Honored.
Every night, Sophie said, “Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy. Goodnight, house.”
The first time she said goodnight to the house, I cried in the hallway.
Therapy continued.
For both of us.
Sophie began to say more.
Some days she was angry.
At Rachel.
At me.
At Emily for dying.
At her own hair for hurting when brushed.
Dr. Harris told me anger was a sign she felt safe enough to protest.
So when she yelled, “You didn’t come!” after a nightmare, I did not defend myself.
I sat on the floor outside her room and said, “You’re right. I didn’t come then. I’m here now.”
Sometimes she slammed the door.
Sometimes she crawled into my lap.
Both were allowed.
I changed jobs.
That surprised people.
I had been on partner track at my firm.
Long hours.
Big clients.
Money that made me feel like I was securing Sophie’s future while missing her present.
I resigned and took an in-house counsel position at a nonprofit hospital system.
Less pay.
More evenings.
My old boss said, “Don’t make a career decision out of guilt.”
I said, “I’m making a parenting decision out of reality.”
It felt good.
Terrifying.
But good.
One Saturday, we went back to the old house.
Sophie asked.
I almost said no.
Dr. Harris said returning on her terms could help.
So we went with Mom and Laura.
The house was empty.
I had put it on the market.
Sophie stood in the kitchen doorway for a long time.
Her hand held mine.
“Do you want to leave?” I asked.
“No.”
She stepped onto the tile.
Then another step.
She looked at the place where I had found her.
“I was there.”
“Yes.”
“Rachel was there.”
“Yes.”
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
She looked up at me.
“You came that time.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then she took a purple crayon from her pocket and placed it on the floor.
“What’s that for?”
“For little me,” she said. “She was scared.”
I crouched beside her.
“What should we tell little you?”
Sophie thought about it.
“That Daddy comes.”
I closed my eyes.
Not always, I thought.
Not soon enough.
But I said, “Yes. Daddy comes.”
We left the crayon there until the house sold.
I told the realtor not to move it until after the final walkthrough.
She thought I was strange.
I did not care.
In December, we received notice that Rachel was appealing.
My stomach dropped when Laura called.
Sophie was building a cardboard castle in the living room.
I stepped into the kitchen.
“What does that mean?”
“Mostly legal process,” Laura said. “No immediate danger. The protective order remains.”
I gripped the counter.
“Could she get out?”
“Not anytime soon. And not near Sophie.”
Still, that night Sophie had a nightmare.
I did not tell her about the appeal.
Maybe she sensed my fear.
Maybe children hear adult silence like a second language.
I started sleeping badly again.
Dr. Harris told me trauma recovery is not a straight line.
I said I hated therapy clichés.
He said they become clichés because they keep being true.
Annoying man.
Right man.
At Christmas, Emily’s parents came from Oregon.
I had been afraid to call them after the trial.
Afraid they would blame me.
They had every right.
When I finally told them everything, Emily’s mother cried for a long time.
Then said, “We’re coming.”
Sophie ran into their arms at the airport.
Grandma Elise smelled like cinnamon gum and wool.
Grandpa Frank cried when Sophie showed him her missing tooth.
That week, our yellow-door house filled with stories of Emily.
Not sad ones only.
Funny ones.
Embarrassing ones.
Stories where she burned toast, failed algebra, danced in grocery aisles, and once stole a neighbor’s garden gnome for a senior prank.
Sophie listened like someone collecting treasure.
One night, she asked Grandma Elise, “Would Mommy be mad at Daddy?”
The room went silent.
Elise looked at me.
I did not look away.
“Yes,” she said gently. “For a while.”
Sophie nodded.
“Then?”
“Then she would want him to keep loving you better.”
Sophie leaned against me.
“He does.”
I broke.
There was no stopping it.
I cried in front of everyone.
Sophie patted my arm.
“It’s okay, Daddy. Feelings come out.”
May you like
That was something Dr. Harris had taught her.
And somehow, my five-year-old daughter was teaching it back to me.
