Chapter 8 - Elena sees the maid uniform
Elena returned the next afternoon.
Not to move in.
For a supervised, child-centered visit recommended by Sofia’s therapist and supported by child services.
We used the sunroom.
Neutral enough.
Elena brought nothing but crackers.
Because Sofia asked.
She sat on the floor.
Sofia sat six feet away.
Sterling between them.
Elena said:
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Silence.
Then Sofia asked:
“You my mommy?”
“Yes.”
“You live picture.”
Elena laughed painfully.
“I used to.”
“You go away.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Every adult in the room tightened.
Therapist Dr. Lillian Foster answered:
“That’s a big story. Mommy and Daddy will tell you more as you get bigger.”
Elena said:
“I was sick and scared, and some grown-ups made mistakes.”
Good.
Sofia looked at me.
“Daddy mistake?”
“Yes.”
She seemed satisfied that blame had distributed.
Then she crawled closer.
Not all the way.
Elena showed her hands.
Sofia touched one finger.
That was their first voluntary contact.
Twenty-three minutes later Sofia climbed into Elena’s lap.
No music.
No cameras.
Just fatigue.
She leaned against her.
Elena cried silently.
Then noticed black residue still under one of Sofia’s fingernails.
Her whole body stiffened.
“What is that?”
I answered:
“Shoe polish.”
Elena looked at me.
I explained the dressing-room scene.
Not every detail in front of Sofia.
Later, alone, Elena saw photographs police had taken of the maid uniform and stool.
She stared.
“Veronica did that to her?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“You let her parent Sofia?”
The question carried three years.
“Yes.”
Elena stood.
Walked to the window.
I said:
“I didn’t know.”
She turned.
“You didn’t know about me either.”
There.
It was not fair as a complete statement.
It was fair emotionally.
May you like
I accepted it.
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