Six months later, our apartment is smaller than the house on Maple Street, but Meadow calls it our safe house.
Her hair reaches just below her ears now, soft and wavy and stubbornly golden. She still touches it sometimes, checking that it’s there. But she no longer sleeps in hats. Last week, she chose a purple ribbon and asked me if her hair was long enough for “a tiny braid.”
I cried in the bathroom afterward where she couldn’t see me.
The divorce was finalized in October. Dustin kept the house. I kept peace.
He gets supervised visits every other Saturday at a family center with painted rainbows on the walls. Meadow is polite. She shows him spelling tests and soccer stickers. She answers questions when the counselor encourages her.
But she does not hug him.
She does not call him Daddy anymore either.
She calls him Dustin.
The first time she said it, he looked like someone had slapped him. Maybe that was when he finally understood that betrayal does not always scream. Sometimes it simply changes what a child calls you.
Judith still sends letters. I do not open them. Francine files them in a folder in case we need to extend the protection order.
One envelope had Meadow’s name on it.
Meadow saw the handwriting and went pale.
“Do I have to read it?”
“No,” I said. “You never have to accept words from someone who hurt you.”
She nodded and went back to her homework.
