Chapter 9 - THE FIRST WINTER AFTER
The next winter terrified Emily.
The first freezing morning arrived in December.
She stood at the door wearing three layers.
Hat.
Coat.
Scarf.
Gloves.
I joked:
“You look like a marshmallow.”
She didn’t laugh.
So I stopped.
At school pickup, she asked:
“Do I ever have to stay outside if I’m bad?”
“No.”
“What if I spill something?”
“No.”
“What if I lie?”
“No.”
“What if I hit someone?”
“You’ll have consequences.”
Her face tightened.
“But not outside.”
“Not like that.”
“What kind?”
“We’d talk. You might lose a privilege. We’d figure out why it happened.”
She stared at me.
“No hanging?”
My throat closed.
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Then I changed the answer.
“No.”
She frowned.
I crouched.
“I don’t want you to trust me because I say promise.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to watch what I do.”
She thought.
That was a lesson therapy taught me.
Children who had heard promises broken did not need bigger promises.
They needed repeated evidence.
I said:
“I’ll keep showing you.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
That winter we made hot chocolate whenever snow fell.
Not as therapy.
At least not officially.
Sometimes ordinary rituals replace frightening associations slowly.
Snow became cocoa.
Cold became sledding.
The backyard became a place where she built terrible snowmen.
One day she stayed outside too long voluntarily and I had to call her in three times.
That irritated me.
May you like
I almost cried from happiness.
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