Chapter 6: The Therapist’s Room
Lily’s therapist had a sand tray and a shelf of small figures. Lily did not touch them the first session back. She sat close to my side of the couch and watched the therapist’s mouth as if the wrong sentence might appear there without warning.
I had sent a summary ahead of time so Lily would not have to be the one to explain the hospital call. The therapist used it carefully, confirming facts without forcing performance. When she asked Lily what she had been told at Grandma’s house, Lily looked at me first. I nodded once.
“They said I have to make space,” Lily whispered. “For the real children. Aunt Madison said I should be grateful.”
The therapist nodded as if writing the words into a permanent place. “And what did Mom say when she heard that?”
“She said I’m not going back. She said I don’t sleep in the garage.”
“That’s right,” I said, because repetition was part of the medicine.
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We left with a short list: keep routines visible, answer the same questions as many times as she asked, avoid debating the relatives in front of her, let her control small choices at home so the large ones felt less unstable. Daniel read the list on the car screen and said, “We can do that.” He had always been willing. Now he was precise.
At home Lily arranged her stuffed animals in a line at the foot of the bed and told them the same rule I had told her. No one in the line was temporary. I stood in the doorway and let the quiet ceremony finish without interruption.
