Chapter 2
I didn't sleep that night.
Not because Nia was crying upstairs.
Not because she kept telling me I was destroying our relationship over a misunderstanding.
I couldn't sleep because of the way Lily had looked at her dinner.
My little girl had eaten every bite.
Then she'd asked whether she could keep the leftover bread beside her bed.
At first, I thought she was joking.
"Sweetheart, why would you need bread in your bedroom?"
She looked down.
"In case I get hungry tomorrow."
I felt my chest tighten.
"You can always ask Daddy for food."
She nodded.
But she didn't look convinced.
I carried her upstairs, helped her change into her favorite unicorn pajamas, and tucked her beneath her pink blanket.
Then I sat beside her until she fell asleep.
Even in her dreams, she kept one hand wrapped around my finger.
Downstairs, Nia was packing.
I had asked her to stay in the guest room while she made arrangements to leave.
She had somewhere else to go.
Her sister lived twenty minutes away, and Nia had already called her.
But instead of taking responsibility, she kept insisting that I was being cruel.
When I entered the guest room, she was sitting on the bed with an open suitcase.
Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes.
"Marcus, please."
I stood in the doorway.
"We need to talk."
She nodded quickly.
"Good. Because this is ridiculous."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Nia, stop."
She stared at me.
"I need the truth."
"About what?"
"About Lily."
She looked away.
I continued.
"How long have you been treating her differently when I'm not home?"
Nia crossed her arms.
"I don't treat her differently."
"She was afraid to ask for dinner."
"She's sensitive."
"She said you told her she'd have to earn her food."
Nia shrugged.
"Children need rules."
"Food isn't a reward."
She rolled her eyes.
"You spoil her."
I took a slow breath.
"She's five."
"And she's old enough to understand that the world doesn't revolve around her."
I stared at the woman I'd planned to marry.
Six months earlier, I'd been looking at engagement rings.
I had imagined Nia standing beside me while Lily scattered flower petals at our wedding.
I had pictured family holidays.
School plays.
Birthday parties.
A home filled with laughter.
Now I couldn't understand how I'd missed the cruelty hiding behind her smile.
"What did you mean when you said Lily hadn't earned dinner?"
Nia sighed.
"She refused to clean up her toys."
I frowned.
"So you withheld food?"
"I told her she could eat after she cleaned."
"Was she refusing?"
"She was being difficult."
"What did she do?"
Nia hesitated.
Then muttered, "She started crying."
I closed my eyes.
My daughter had been punished for crying.
I thought about how often Lily had apologized lately.
For spilling water.
For leaving a toy in the hallway.
For asking questions.
I had assumed she was going through a phase.
Now I wondered how many of those apologies had been taught by fear.
"Nia, I'm not discussing whether you stay."
Her expression hardened.
"So that's it?"
"Yes."
"Two years mean nothing?"
"They mean I trusted you for two years."
She looked offended.
"I took care of your child."
I stepped closer.
"Taking care of a child means making sure she's safe."
"She is safe!"
"She was frightened to eat in her own home."
Silence.
Nia looked at her suitcase.
Then said something that made my stomach turn.
"She reminds you of your dead wife. That's why you never discipline her."
I froze.
My wife, Jasmine, had died when Lily was two.
A sudden medical emergency had taken her from us.
One morning, she was laughing with Lily in our kitchen.
Three days later, I was standing beside her hospital bed, holding her hand while doctors explained there was nothing more they could do.
I hadn't been ready to become a widower.
I hadn't known how to tell a toddler her mother wasn't coming home.
But I had promised Jasmine that our daughter would never grow up questioning whether she was loved.
Nia knew that.
She knew how much Jasmine's death had changed our lives.
And now she was using my grief as a weapon.
"Don't bring Jasmine into this."
Nia looked away.
"I'm just saying—"
"No."
My voice was firm.
"You're done."
I left the room before anger made me say something I would regret.
The next morning, Lily woke earlier than usual.
I found her standing in the kitchen doorway.
Her curls were tangled from sleep.
She wore fuzzy pink slippers and hugged her stuffed rabbit against her chest.
"Daddy?"
I turned from the stove.
"Good morning, princess."
Her eyes moved toward the frying pan.
"Are you cooking?"
"Your favorite."
"Pancakes?"
"With strawberries."
She smiled.
Then stopped.
"Did Auntie say I could?"
The spatula nearly slipped from my hand.
I crouched in front of her.
"Lily, listen to me."
She looked nervous.
"You don't need anyone's permission to be hungry."
She nodded slowly.
"And you don't have to earn breakfast."
Her bottom lip trembled.
"Even if I make a mess?"
"Even then."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
I hugged her.
She held on tightly.
That morning, we ate pancakes together at the kitchen island.
I let her choose the music.
She picked a silly song about dancing vegetables.
We laughed while she tried to copy the dance moves.
For a little while, she seemed like herself again.
Then Nia came downstairs carrying two suitcases.
Lily immediately stopped laughing.
Her shoulders tightened.
I noticed.
And Nia noticed that I noticed.
"Good morning, Lily," she said sweetly.
My daughter whispered, "Good morning."
Nia approached her.
"Can I have a hug before I leave?"
Lily looked at me.
I didn't answer for her.
"You can decide, sweetheart."
She shook her head.
Nia's smile vanished.
"Seriously?"
I stood.
"Respect her answer."
Nia grabbed her purse.
"Fine."
At the front door, she turned toward me.
"You're going to regret this."
I looked at her.
"No."
She gave a bitter laugh.
"You think you know everything about your perfect little daughter?"
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What does that mean?"
Nia adjusted her handbag.
"Ask her what happened at preschool last Thursday."
I frowned.
"What happened?"
She opened the door.
"Maybe you should pay more attention."
Then she left.
I stood there, staring after her.
Behind me, Lily was unusually quiet.
I turned.
"Sweetheart?"
She looked frightened.
"Daddy, I didn't mean to."
My heart dropped.
"Didn't mean to what?"
She began crying.
"Please don't be mad."
I crossed the room and knelt beside her.
"I'm not mad, baby."
She buried her face against my shoulder.
Then she whispered something I would never forget.
"Auntie told my teacher I was bad."
I closed my eyes.
And I realized Nia hadn't only been hurting my daughter inside our home.
May you like
She had been trying to change how other people saw her.
The question was why.
