Chapter 15 - My Daughter Hated All of Us for a While
At six, Melusine became angry.
Not sad.
Angry.
At Marianne:
“You didn’t come.”
At me:
“You said she died.”
At Sabine:
“You ripped Mommy dress.”
At doctors she had never met:
“They lost her.”
At God.
At weather.
At the road.
At the cane.
At adults generally.
Her therapist said:
“Good.”
I stared.
“Good?”
“Anger can be easier for a child to organize than terror.”
Melusine had spent years with one story.
Mommy died.
Then suddenly:
Mommy did not die.
Adults were wrong.
Some adults lied.
The world stopped feeling predictable.
She asked Marianne:
“Will you disappear again?”
“No.”
Wrong answer.
Her therapist corrected us.
Nobody can promise never to disappear through death, accident, illness, or circumstance.
So Marianne tried again.
“I will tell you where I’m going. If I’m late, I’ll call. I will do everything I can to come back.”
Better.
Melusine asked me:
“Can you die?”
“Yes.”
She cried.
I held her.
Truth can hurt without being harmful.
False guarantees feel kinder until reality eventually collects them.
For months Melusine wanted both of us present whenever possible.
Then abruptly wanted only me.
Then only Marianne.
Then neither.
Normal attachment chaos under extraordinary circumstances.
We followed her therapist.
No adult competed.
That was essential.
May you like
Sabine had turned motherhood into competition.
We would not.
