Julia came to my house two days later.
Sophie was with her that night.
We met in the kitchen.
“What are you going to do about your father?”
“Protective order.”
“Good.”
“Celeste too.”
“Good.”
Then:
“And the estate?”
“What about it?”
“Sophie.”
“She lives there half her time.”
“Does she want to?”
I stopped.
I had not asked.
Of course.
The house was mine.
Her room.
Her toys.
My office.
I assumed home remained home.
Julia said:
“She cried when we drove past Oak Street because the old library has stairs.”
My chest tightened.
“She never fell.”
“I know.”
“Doctor said—”
“I said she never fell.”
Julia’s voice remained calm.
“She was still thrown toward a staircase.”
I sat down.
“Do you want me to move?”
“I want you to ask her what she needs.”
That was harder.
Sophie was four.
A four-year-old should not decide real estate.
But she could tell us where she felt safe.
The next day, with Dr. Helen Graves, the child therapist, we asked.
“Do you want to sleep at Daddy’s house?”
Sophie:
“Yes.”
“Are the stairs scary?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want Daddy to carry you?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Sophie shrugged.
“Till five.”
A timeline.
Good.
We did not move.
We did not force the stairs.
For two weeks we used the elevator installed for my grandmother years earlier.
Then Sophie chose differently later.
Her pace.
