Chapter 9: Mia’s Words
The first time Mia spoke about the parking garage without being asked, we were in the car on the way home from school.
She was looking out the window when she said, almost conversationally, “Grandma told me if I moved, I would get in trouble. So I didn’t move. Even when I had to pee.”
My hands tightened on the wheel. Daniel, in the passenger seat, turned to look at her.
“I know, sweetheart,” I said carefully. “That must have been really hard.”
Mia nodded.
“I counted cars. I got to one hundred and forty-two. Then I lost count.”
Daniel’s voice was rough.
“You don’t ever have to do what Grandma says again if it makes you scared. You find a grown-up you trust, or you wait for Mom or me. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
Then she asked if we could get ice cream, and the moment passed with the same suddenness it had arrived.
That night Daniel sat on the edge of our bed with his head in his hands.
“She counted cars,” he said. “For five hours. While my mother shopped.”
I sat beside him and rested my hand on his back.
“She’s telling us because she feels safe enough to say it,” I said. “That’s important.”
May you like
He leaned into me, exhausted and angry and grieving all at once.
The formal systems had done what they could. The deeper work—helping Mia feel secure again, and helping Daniel live with what his mother had done—would take much longer.
