It was a drawing.
Four stick figures stood hand in hand beneath a large yellow star. Three of them were easy to recognize—labeled carefully in my daughter’s uneven handwriting: Mommy, Daddy, and Me.
She was taller than me, with long brown hair and a bright red triangle dress. The smile on her face looked confident. Familiar, somehow.
Above her head, Ruby had written a name in big, careful letters.
MOLLY.
Ms. Allen lowered her voice. “Ruby talks about Molly a lot. Not casually. She mentions her in stories, drawings, even during singing time. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
I nodded and smiled because that’s what adults do when they’re trying not to fall apart in front of children.
But inside, something cracked.
That night, after dinner and bath time, I lay beside Ruby as I tucked her under her Christmas blanket. I brushed her hair back and asked, as casually as I could manage, “Sweetheart… who’s Molly?”
Her face lit up instantly.
My heart dropped.
“Daddy’s friend?” I repeated.
“Yeah! We see her on Saturdays.”
Saturdays.
The word echoed painfully.
“What do you do with her?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
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