Page 21 of Daddy Knows Best

"Good girl."

God damn I loved hearing him say that.

I wanted to earn those words again. Wanted to be good for him in ways that had nothing to do with balanced budgets.

"Do you consent to this intervention?" His formal tone contrasted with the softness in his eyes. "Understanding that you can revoke consent at any time?"

I looked at the romper again. Such a silly piece of clothing. But it represented trust. Trust that he knew what I needed. Trust that I could be vulnerable without being hurt. Trust that maybe, possibly, I could heal the parts of me that equated wanting with wrongness.

"I consent."

He nodded once, satisfaction flickering across his features before the professional mask returned. "There's a privacy screen in the corner. Take your time changing. Undergarments stay onunless you're uncomfortable. Hair in pigtails if you're willing—there are elastics on the small table."

He gestured to a tri-fold screen I hadn't noticed before, positioned to create a private changing area. Of course he'd thought of everything.

I gathered the clothes with shaking hands, the cotton soft against my fingers. The bee socks made me want to laugh or cry or both. Such innocent items for such a charged situation.

"Oh, and Emily?" He'd returned to his desk, checking something on his tablet. "Once you're changed, the session begins. You don't need to announce yourself—just come to the table when you're ready."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and escaped behind the screen. The space was small but not claustrophobic, with hooks on the wall and a cushioned bench. A mirror hung at eye level.

My blazer came off first, then my work blouse. Each piece of professional armor removed until I stood in my bra and skirt, looking at the romper like it might hold answers. The cotton whispered against my skin as I stepped into it, pulled it up, threaded my arms through those ridiculous puffed sleeves.

The snaps at the crotch took three tries with trembling fingers. Each one clicked into place with finality, sealing me into this choice. The hem hit mid-thigh, surprisingly short. When I moved, air kissed skin usually hidden by pencil skirts and propriety.

The socks came next, soft and absurd with their tiny bees. They stopped just above my ankles, leaving an expanse of bare leg. My work clothes hung on the hooks like abandoned identities—Emily the Professional, Emily the Responsible, Emily the Adult Who Definitely Had Her Shit Together.

In the mirror stood someone else. Someone smaller, softer, wearing mint green and uncertainty. My hands fumbled with theelastics, sectioning my hair into two pigtails that immediately made me look younger.

The walk to the children's table felt impossibly long. Air moved differently against bare legs, and the romper's cotton swished with each movement, a constant reminder of what I'd agreed to. My pigtails swayed, brushing my shoulders like ghostly fingers.

Dr. Whitlow knelt beside the low table. He didn't stare at my transformation, didn't let his professional mask slip. But I caught the quick assessment—checking that I felt safe, that the clothes fit properly, that I hadn't bolted for the door.

"Have a seat wherever feels comfortable." His voice carried the same measured calm, but underneath ran a current of something warmer.

I folded myself onto the carpet, hyperaware of how the romper rode up. The table hit at chest height when I sat cross-legged, perfect for leaning over to draw. Everything about the setup whispered intention—the way the soft carpet cushioned my knees, how the table's rounded edges felt safe under my forearms, even the vanilla scent from the markers that made my nose remember kindergarten.

A pristine sheet of paper waited, thick and textured like watercolor stock. At the top, in his precise handwriting: "My Money Monster."

"We're going to explore how overspending feels inside you." He settled across from me, close enough to guide but far enough to maintain boundaries. "Not the logical reasons—we know those. But the emotional creature that drives the behavior."

The 64-count Crayola box sat between us like a rainbow promise. I hadn't seen one since elementary school, when having the big box made you classroom royalty. My fingers traced the familiar yellow and green, memory and present blurring.

"I don't know how to draw a feeling." The words came out smaller than intended, and I realized the regression had already started. Just holding crayons in this outfit, at this tiny table, pulled me backward through time.

"You don't need to know. Just let your hands move. What color is the wanting?"

My hand found acid green without thinking. The waxy smell hit my nose as I uncapped it, familiar as my own name. I made a mark—jagged, sharp, cutting across the white space.

"Good. What else?"

Red joined the green. Not gentle red, not valentine red, but the angry scarlet of overdraft notices and final warnings. It scratched across the paper in violent strokes, building something shapeless and hungry.

"Tell me about the monster." His prompt came soft, undemanding.

"It's always hungry." My voice had changed, pitched higher, words tumbling out without my usual filters. "It sees pretty things and says 'mine mine mine' until Emmy can't think about anything else."

The child-name I hadn't used in twenty years slipped out like it had been waiting. Heat flooded my face, but Dr. Whitlow's expression didn't change.

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