“Some can be,” I admitted. “But I think this one will be kind.”
“Will Daddy be there?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “If he lies, do I have to be quiet because he’s my dad?”
My hand stopped in her hair.
“No,” I said carefully. “But you don’t have to say anything unless the judge asks you.”
She nodded again, that same thoughtful nod I had seen more and more often lately, and I felt a strange little thread of fear move through me.
In the car, Nashville’s outskirts passed in cold, familiar blurs—gas stations, school zones, churches with marquee signs, the donut shop on the corner where Lily once lost a tooth into a glazed twist and cried until the cashier found it. Life looked offensively normal. On the radio a man cheerfully discussed weekend weather patterns while I gripped the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.
Lily sat behind me with her rabbit and backpack. About ten minutes into the drive, she said, “Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“If the judge asks me a question, can I answer honestly?”
Something about the way she repeated it made me look up sharply into the rearview mirror. She was staring out the window, not at me, her small face reflected faintly in the glass.