Lily's Questions

Lily’s questions were like tiny, persistent gnats, buzzing around Sarah’s carefully constructed peace. At seven years old, Lily possessed an innocence that was both a shield and a constant, aching reminder of Elias’s absence. Her world was a sun-dappled garden of make-believe, populated by dolls with improbable hairstyles and a fierce, stuffed dragon named Sparky. But recently, the shadows had begun to creep in, casting long, uncertain fingers.

It started with a seemingly innocuous observation at school. “Miss Evans said my daddy is a bad man,” Lily announced one Tuesday afternoon, her brow furrowed in a way that Sarah had come to recognize as the precursor to a storm of confusion. Sarah’s heart, a well-worn muscle that had endured a decade of strain, gave a painful lurch. She knelt, her hands finding Lily’s small shoulders, her smile a little too bright.

“Oh, honey,” Sarah began, her voice a carefully modulated hum. “Miss Evans doesn’t know everything. Sometimes grown-ups say things without understanding.”