Chapter 7 - MIA STOPPED ASKING WHAT SHE HAD DONE WRONG
The part nobody saw happened at bedtime.
For months after Thanksgiving, Mia repeatedly asked variations of the same question.
“Does Grandma like me?”
“Why doesn’t Grandma think I’m family?”
“Will Grandpa stop loving me if Daniel has another baby?”
That last one broke me.
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody.”
She had figured it out from fragments.
Children hear more than adults think.
I told her:
“Love is not a chair where someone new sits down and somebody else has to stand up.”
She thought.
Then:
“Grandma thought it was.”
I could not lie.
“Yes.”
“But Grandpa doesn’t?”
“No.”
“Daddy?”
“No.”
“You?”
“Absolutely not.”
She smiled.
“Okay.”
We found a child therapist anyway.
Not because Mia was broken.
Because exclusion by a grandparent can become a story children tell themselves about worth.
We wanted a better story.
Daniel attended sessions too.
He learned how not to overcompensate.
At first, every time Mia looked sad, he bought something.
The therapist shut that down quickly.
“Presence is not purchased.”
He laughed when he told me.
“Apparently my family needs that embroidered on pillows.”
Probably.
That spring, Daniel and I learned I was pregnant.
I was terrified to tell Mia.
Not because she was jealous.
Because I remembered her question.
Would Grandpa love her less?
Would Daniel?
Would blood change everything?
We sat with her between us.
“You’re going to be a big sister.”
Her eyes widened.
Then narrowed.
“Is it Daddy’s real baby?”
My heart cracked.
Daniel answered before I could.
“You are my real daughter.”
Mia looked at him.
“But this baby comes from your tummy and Mommy’s tummy.”
“Yes.”
“And I didn’t.”
“No.”
“Does that make a difference?”
Daniel took her hands.
“It makes your stories different.”
“Not your place.”
Mia studied him for several seconds.
Then:
“Can I name the baby?”
“No.”
Instant answer.
She laughed.
Good.
When Frank learned, he hugged Mia before congratulating us.
Intentional.
Not performative.
He whispered:
“You’re still my little sunflower.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m six now.”
May you like
Apparently six was ancient.
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