“No,” I said firmly, putting my hands on either side of her face so she had to look at me. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong. Adults are supposed to take care of kids. They didn’t take care of you. That’s on them.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then nodded as if she was filing the information away.
Chris and I stopped letting Lucy out of our sight for days. We moved around the house like satellites around her. Even when she was playing, even when she was watching TV, my body stayed alert. It took effort to remind myself that the danger wasn’t in my living room. But trauma doesn’t care about logic.
Three days after the police station visit, my doorbell rang.
I knew who it was before I looked.
Through the peephole: my mother, my father, Amanda.
They stood on my porch like they’d rehearsed it. My mother’s hands were clasped in front of her chest, her face arranged into concern. My father stood slightly behind her, arms stiff at his sides. Amanda leaned against the railing with her arms crossed, chin lifted, annoyed already.
I opened the door but didn’t step back.