Chapter 9 – THE FATHER SHE STILL LOVED
“No, sweetheart.”
I held Sophie against my chest.
“It isn’t bad to love Daddy.”
She looked up.
“Even after what he did?”
I swallowed.
“Even then.”
She considered that.
“Are you mad at me?”
My heart broke all over again.
“Never for loving your father.”
Sophie rested her cheek against my shoulder.
“I miss when we were all happy.”
I closed my eyes.
“So do I, baby.”
Dante stood a few feet away.
He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t try to tell my daughter that her father was terrible.
And I was grateful.
Because Sophie didn’t need another adult telling her what to feel.
She needed permission to have feelings that didn’t fit neatly into anyone else’s story.
That evening, we went home.
I carried Sophie’s pink overnight bag into her bedroom and placed it beside the bed.
Her stuffed rabbit sat against the pillows.
She picked it up immediately.
“Bunny missed me.”
I smiled.
“I think he did.”
She hugged him.
Then looked toward the doorway.
“Is Daddy coming home?”
I sat beside her.
“Not tonight.”
She looked down.
“Because of the judge?”
“Because Daddy and I are going to live separately while we work things out.”
She nodded.
Then whispered, “Did I make you get divorced?”
I felt my throat tighten.
“No, sweetheart.”
“But I told you what Daddy said.”
I took her hands.
“That was brave. But none of this happened because you told the truth.”
She looked uncertain.
“Then why?”
“Because Daddy and I have grown-up problems. Those problems are ours to handle.”
Sophie studied my face.
“Not mine?”
“Not yours.”
She leaned against me.
For several minutes, we sat quietly.
Then she asked whether Grandma could sleep over.
I said yes.
My mother arrived with a small overnight bag and Sophie’s favorite strawberry muffins.
She didn’t ask questions.
She simply hugged Sophie, put on the kettle, and helped me make the house feel familiar again.
The next morning, I returned to the hair salon.
I’d taken the previous day off, and my manager, Denise, had covered my appointments.
She was fifty-two and had worked beside me for nearly fourteen years.
When I arrived, she looked at my face.
“Oh, honey.”
I shook my head.
“Please don’t make me cry.”
She put her arms around me anyway.
I cried.
Then I washed my face, put on my apron, and went to work.
There was something comforting about ordinary things.
The smell of shampoo.
The sound of hair dryers.
The familiar conversations about grandchildren, vacations, and whose husband had forgotten another anniversary.
For three hours, I was simply Lauren.
A hairstylist.
A mother.
A woman who knew how to make someone feel good about herself.
Not the unstable wife Michael had described.
At lunch, Denise sat beside me.
“You know you can take more time off.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“But?”
I looked at my hands.
“I need to keep working.”
She smiled gently.
“Then we’ll make the schedule work.”
My eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve covered enough shifts for me over the years.”
For the first time in months, I felt what genuine support looked like.
Not control disguised as concern.
Just someone helping without asking me to surrender anything in return.
That afternoon, my attorney explained the next steps.
The temporary parenting arrangements were in place.
The financial issues needed separate attention.
And Sophie would benefit from speaking with someone trained to help children through difficult family changes.
I agreed.
Not because Sophie was damaged.
Because she’d been frightened into believing she had to choose between her parents.
I didn’t want that fear growing quietly inside her.
My mother also began taking back control of her finances.
She changed the account access Michael had used.
She arranged for an independent accountant to review the rental income.
And she asked me to accompany her to the bank.
I offered to handle everything.
Mom shook her head.
“Lauren, I know you mean well.”
I smiled.
“But?”
“But I’m still capable of looking after my own money.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Yes, Mom.”
She squeezed my hand.
“You can help me understand the computer part.”
“Deal.”
It was such a small conversation.
But after everything Michael had done, I wanted my mother to know she was capable.
That her age didn’t make her foolish.
And that trusting someone wasn’t the same as giving them permission to take advantage of her.
Several days later, Dante invited me to meet with him at the same private dining room.
Marco was there.
So was a woman overseeing the independent review of Harbor House.
Dante had already suspended the payments connected to Michael’s company.
He’d also required the program to verify both parents’ legal authority before accepting applications involving children in contested custody situations.
Marian had been removed from intake decisions pending the review.
Dante looked at me.
“I want you to know we’re changing the procedures.”
I nodded.
“I’m glad.”
He hesitated.
“And I wanted to ask whether there’s anything else we can do for you.”
I thought for a moment.
Then answered honestly.
“Please don’t put Sophie’s name in any public statement.”
His expression softened.
“You have my word.”
“I don’t want people turning what happened to her into a story she has to explain at school.”
Dante nodded.
“Neither do I.”
Then he smiled faintly.
“She’s a good kid.”
I smiled.
“She is.”
“She gave me half her cookie.”
I laughed.
“She doesn’t usually share chocolate.”
“Then I feel honored.”
For the first time, the memory of that dinner didn’t make me feel sick.
It made me remember a stranger who’d listened when I was terrified.
And a little girl who’d still found the courage to be kind.
That night, Sophie and I sat at our kitchen table working on her spelling words.
She got nine out of ten correct.
Then she frowned.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask something?”
“Anything.”
She looked toward the calendar where we’d marked her upcoming supervised visit with Michael.
“Daddy’s going to be there?”
“Yes.”
“And somebody else?”
“A person whose job is to help everyone feel safe.”
Sophie thought about that.
Then she slowly closed her spelling book.
“Mommy, what if Daddy asks me to choose again?”
