Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3 LITTLE SECRETS
Camille was patient.
That was what made what she was doing so difficult to see.
She never told Lucy, Your mother doesn't love you.
Even Camille understood that would be too obvious.
Instead, she chose sentences that sounded harmless.
Small sentences.
Soft sentences.
The kind an adult could easily explain away.
“Mommy must be very busy today.”
“Mommy has lots of grown-up things to do.”
“Daddy's house can be home too.”
And whenever Lucy looked uncertain, Camille smiled.
Always smiled.
Because children were supposed to trust adults who smiled at them.
It began on a Thursday afternoon.
Evelyn was eleven minutes late for pickup.
Traffic had stopped after an accident three blocks from Lucy's preschool.
By the time Evelyn pulled into the parking lot, she was already apologizing before she had fully opened the classroom door.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”
Lucy ran toward her.
But instead of smiling, she wrapped both arms around Evelyn's legs.
“You came.”
Evelyn frowned.
“Of course I came.”
Lucy looked up.
Her enormous gray eyes were serious.
“I thought maybe you were busy.”
“I was stuck in traffic.”
“Camille says you're busy a lot.”
Evelyn became still.
“What does that mean?”
Lucy shrugged.
The question had already become too complicated.
“I dunno.”
Evelyn didn't push.
She simply crouched and kissed her forehead.
“Well, Mommy was stuck behind about a thousand cars.”
Lucy considered that.
“A thousand?”
“Possibly a million.”
Lucy finally giggled.
And Evelyn let the moment go.
But she remembered it.
Two weeks later, Lucy woke from a nightmare.
Evelyn heard her crying through the baby monitor and hurried down the hall.
When she opened the bedroom door, Lucy was sitting upright, clutching her blanket.
“Mommy!”
Evelyn climbed into bed beside her.
“I'm here.”
Lucy buried herself against her chest.
“You went away.”
“I was in my room.”
“No. In my dream.”
Evelyn stroked her hair.
“It was just a dream.”
“You didn't come back.”
The words landed strangely.
Evelyn pulled back.
“Lucy, Mommy always comes back.”
Lucy sniffled.
“Always?”
“Always.”
The little girl nodded.
But she didn't look convinced.
The preschool noticed next.
Lucy had always been sensitive, but lately she became distressed whenever a teacher left the classroom.
If Evelyn walked toward the restroom during pickup, Lucy followed.
If another parent mentioned going on a business trip, Lucy became unusually quiet.
Her teacher, Mrs. Keller, approached Evelyn one afternoon.
“Has anything changed at home?”
“Not really.”
Mrs. Keller hesitated.
“She's been asking a lot of questions about parents leaving.”
Evelyn felt something cold settle inside her.
“What kind of questions?”
“Whether mommies sometimes find new families.”
Evelyn stared at her.
“Where did she hear that?”
“We don't know.”
That evening Evelyn sat at the kitchen table staring at an empty mason jar.
She could interrogate Lucy.
She could ask exactly what Camille had said.
But Lucy was four.
Evelyn refused to make her daughter responsible for investigating the adults around her.
So instead, she created a game.
She decorated the jar with little yellow stars.
When Lucy wandered into the kitchen, Evelyn held it up.
“Want to see something?”
“What?”
“Our Truth Jar.”
Lucy climbed onto a chair.
“What's truth?”
“Something real.”
Lucy thought.
“Like dinosaurs are dead?”
Evelyn smiled.
“Exactly.”
Each night, they would put one thing into the jar.
Something happy.
Something scary.
Something confusing.
No one would get in trouble.
No one had to answer questions.
That first night Lucy drew ice cream.
The second night she drew Bunny.
The third night she drew Mommy.
On the sixth night, she drew four people.
Evelyn.
Andrew.
Lucy.
Camille.
Three figures stood together.
Camille stood far away.
Above her was a crooked bubble containing two words:
MOMMY BUSY.
Evelyn stared at the picture.
“Tell me about this?”
Lucy pointed.
“That's you.”
“I can tell. Excellent hair.”
Lucy giggled.
Then she pointed at Camille.
“She says you're busy.”
“When?”
Lucy shrugged.
“Sometimes.”
“Does that make you sad?”
Lucy looked down.
“She says big girls don't cry when Mommy's busy.”
Evelyn's stomach tightened.
But she kept her voice calm.
“You're allowed to cry when you're sad.”
“Even big girls?”
“Especially big girls.”
Lucy smiled faintly.
Then she leaned against her mother.
Evelyn kissed the top of her head.
She didn't ask another question.
But later that night, after Lucy was asleep, Evelyn photographed the drawing.
Andrew came over the following evening.
Evelyn placed the picture on the kitchen counter.
“What am I looking at?”
“Ask Lucy.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Evelyn.”
“She's becoming afraid I'm going to disappear.”
Andrew examined the drawing.
“Kids say things.”
“Her preschool noticed it too.”
That changed his expression.
“Camille hasn't done anything.”
“I didn't say she had.”
“You didn't need to.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“Why are you defending her before you've even asked what happened?”
“Because I know you already hate her.”
“This isn't about whether I like your wife.”
“It always becomes about her.”
“No, Andrew.”
Evelyn pointed toward Lucy's bedroom.
“This is about why our daughter suddenly needs reassurance every time I leave a room.”
Andrew shook his head.
“Camille has been wonderful with her lately.”
“Then why is Lucy getting worse?”
Silence.
Andrew picked up the drawing.
“I'll talk to her.”
Camille cried when he did.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
She simply sat on the edge of their bed and allowed tears to gather in her eyes.
“So that's what she thinks of me.”
“I'm asking a question.”
“No. You're accusing me.”
“Did you tell Lucy Evelyn is too busy for her?”
“I told her her mother has a job.”
Andrew rubbed his forehead.
“Camille.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want Lucy to feel safe.”
“So do I!”
Her voice cracked.
Then softened.
“I have done everything you asked.”
Andrew looked at her.
“I bought her toys. I go to the park. I sit on the floor and play tea party. I let her reject me over and over because I know I deserve it.”
She wiped her eyes.
“And Evelyn still gets to decide I'm dangerous.”
Andrew's anger weakened.
Camille saw it.
She reached for his hand.
“I love you.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
And once again, Andrew chose the explanation that hurt least.
Later that evening, Lucy was coloring in the hallway outside their bedroom.
Neither adult knew she was there.
Camille said quietly:
“Evelyn wants you to think I'm dangerous.”
Lucy stopped coloring.
She didn't know what dangerous meant.
But she knew Mommy's name.
She knew Daddy sounded upset.
And she knew Camille was crying.
Lucy looked down at Bunny.
Maybe she had done something wrong.
Maybe telling Mommy things made Daddy sad.
That night, when Evelyn called, Lucy said almost nothing.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
“Yes.”
“You sound quiet.”
“I'm okay.”
“Promise?”
Lucy looked at Bunny.
Then toward the closed bedroom door.
“Promise.”
May you like
It was the first time Lucy had ever lied to her mother.
And she was only four years old.
