Lily asked the question while we folded towels.
She was matching the small ones by color.
Mom had taught her to make little stacks.
We were almost finished when Lily held up a yellow washcloth.
“Mommy, can I still love Daddy?”
My hands stopped.
I sat beside her on the rug.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Even if I don't want to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad if I miss him?”
“No.”
She folded the washcloth twice.
“Sometimes I miss when he made pancakes.”
I remembered those mornings.
Daniel used to flip pancakes too high and catch them crooked in the pan.
Lily would cheer anyway.
I could remember those mornings and still take her fear seriously.
“You can miss pancakes and still want to feel safe,” I said.
She considered that.
“Can we make pancakes here?”
“We can try.”
Mom called from the kitchen.
“I heard that.”
Lily laughed.
The question stayed with me all day.
I told Dr. Sato during our caregiver check-in.
She said children often hold complicated feelings about people they love.
They may remember kindness and fear at the same time.
“Don't ask her to choose a side,” she advised.
“Let her know that adults are making safety decisions.”
We discussed bedtime routines and how I could respond when Lily worried she had caused trouble.
Dr. Sato suggested repeating simple, consistent messages.
She did not encourage me to rehearse an explanation of the investigation with Lily.
At home, I wrote three sentences on a note card for myself.
You can tell me how you feel.
You are not responsible for adult choices.
I will help keep you safe.
I left the card inside my dresser.
I needed the reminder more than Lily did.
The next family court review was scheduled for later that month.
Daniel's attorney had submitted a response asking the court to change the temporary restrictions.
I read his statement with Priya.
He denied wrongdoing and criticized my decision to stay with Mom.
He said the evidence was inconclusive.
He described Lily as a child who had always been anxious about doctors.
Parts of that were true.
Lily did dislike needles.
I joined a budgeting workshop at the local community center.
There were older retirees, young parents, and a man preparing to start a small business.
The instructor began with monthly expenses.
Rent.
Utilities.
Transportation.
Food.
Medical costs.
I had once managed complex shipping budgets at work.
Yet I felt embarrassed admitting that I didn't know the details of my own household accounts.
The instructor assured everyone that rebuilding financial habits was a process.
I wrote down every category.
At home, I compared the worksheet with my bank statements.
Some expenses surprised me.
Parking near the clinic cost more than I realized.
School lunches were less expensive than buying special groceries for every day.
I adjusted the budget without making those choices into a judgment about my worth.
The next week, I called the insurance company to clarify reimbursement rules for an appointment.
The representative explained a form I hadn't understood.
I asked her to repeat one section.
The community center held a rainy-day family craft event.
Mom suggested we go because Lily had been restless indoors.
There were paper lanterns, washable paint, and a long table covered in newspapers.
Lily painted a small house with a blue door.
She added a yellow window and an enormous bird on the roof.
I asked why the bird was so big.
“It keeps watch,” she said.
I didn't ask what it watched for.
She added flowers to the garden and carried the picture home proudly.
I taped it near the balcony where she could see it whenever she wanted.
The next morning, she asked for more blue paint.
She did.
I no longer pretended to understand things just because another person sounded impatient.
On Friday, Lily and I visited the library.
She carried three books about ocean animals.
One was too large for her backpack.
I offered to carry it.
She refused, then accepted help halfway to the car.
At home, she discovered that whales sleep differently from people.
She insisted that Bunny might be related to a whale because both liked sleeping.
I said that was unlikely.
She called my reasoning unfair.
Mom joined the debate and sided with Bunny.
We laughed until Lily couldn't finish her sentence.
The next morning, I found her whale book open on the couch.
A pencil marked the page she'd been reading.
I left it where it was.
There had been a time when every unattended object in our old house became a complaint from Daniel.
Now a book on the sofa was simply a book on the sofa.
I began to appreciate the quiet absence of criticism.
She did become upset when routines changed.
None of it answered why she feared going home with him.
Priya reminded me that our response should distinguish observations from interpretation.
We attached the appropriate records and described the current treatment plan.
I was learning that a truthful statement could include uncertainty without becoming weak.
On Saturday, I attended a parent support session offered through the advocacy center.
There were six adults in a circle.
We did not share identifying details about children.
A facilitator explained common reactions to trauma and stress.
She reminded us that not every child follows the same pattern.
Some ask endless questions.
Some become quiet.
Some keep laughing at ordinary jokes.
All deserve patient care.
One parent said she kept replaying past decisions.
Another said he couldn't sleep because he was afraid to overlook a new sign.
I recognized myself in both.
When my turn came, I said, “I don't know how to be calm when I don't know the full story.”
The facilitator said calmness was not a requirement for good parenting.
Reliable responses mattered more.
I wrote that down.
Afterward, I walked around a small park near the center.
The trees were dripping from the rain.
A father was helping a toddler jump across puddles.
I watched them for a moment.
I had spent weeks seeing danger everywhere.
I didn't want that to become the only thing I saw.
That evening, Lily and Mom made pancakes for dinner.
Lily insisted on adding blueberries in the shape of a smile.
The first pancake broke apart.
The second one burned at the edge.
The third looked almost right.
“Daddy makes them round,” Lily said.
Mom shrugged.
“Then we'll make them interesting.”
Lily decided interesting pancakes were better.
Later, she told me she had drawn a picture of her father at school.
She watched my face closely.
“Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
She ran to get the picture.
It showed a man holding a frying pan beneath an enormous yellow sun.
I asked whether she wanted to keep it in her folder.
She nodded.
I helped her slide it into a plastic sleeve.
I did not tear it up.
I did not put it on display to prove anything.
It belonged to Lily.
So did the memories and feelings she wasn't ready to explain.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: When the Investigators Called Again, Their News Was Neither Simple Nor Complete
The Night Lily Asked Me Not to Take Her Home with Her Father
Part 10 of 16
