Page 22 of Daddy Knows Best

"What does Emmy do when the monster gets loud?"

Gray joined the assault on paper, scribbling over and around the red and green. "She buys things. Stupid things. Things that smell nice or feel soft or promise to make the scared go away." My hand moved faster, building layers. "But it's never enough. Monster just gets bigger."

The shape emerging wasn't planned. A mouth, gaping and lined with dollar signs for teeth. Arms that reached and grabbed, fingers that looked like credit cards. In its belly, I drew a tiny stick figure—me, Emmy, swallowed whole.

"When did the monster first appear?"

The question unlocked something deep. My hand found brown, the color of thrift store sweaters and government cheese. "When Mama cried over bills. When Daddy said 'we can't afford it' to everything. Emmy learned not to ask, but the wanting didn't stop. It just got quiet. Sneaky."

Tears dripped onto the paper, making the colors blur. I didn't remember starting to cry, but my cheeks were wet, nose running. Dr. Whitlow slid a tissue box closer without comment.

"The monster told Emmy if she could buy things herself, she'd be safe. Never have to hear 'we can't afford it' again." Purple joined the chaos, dark and bruise-like. "But that was a lie. Now Emmy says it to herself. Can't afford rent. Can't afford textbooks. Can't afford to fix what's broken."

My whole body shook with the force of revelation. This thing I'd been fighting—it wasn't about pretty things or retail therapy. It was a scared kid trying to buy her way to security, feeding a monster that only grew hungrier with each purchase.

"What does the monster fear?" His question cut through my spiral, grounding me.

I grabbed black, pressing so hard the crayon snapped. Good. Let it break. "Being empty. Being nothing. Being the kid in patched jeans while everyone else got new backpacks." The broken crayon scraped across paper, leaving harsh marks. "Monster says if Emmy stops feeding it, she'll disappear. Become invisible. Worthless."

The drawing was almost complete now—a horrible, honest thing that showed my insides spread across white paper. All the shame and want and fear transformed into waxy color. I added one more thing: yellow bars around the stick figure in the monster's belly. A cage made of gold, of things I couldn't afford but bought anyway.

"But Emmy's learning something." My voice had gone whisper-soft, words coming from somewhere deeper than thought. "The monster lies. Buying things doesn't make her safe. It makes her more scared. More trapped."

"What does Emmy need instead?"

The question hung in the air while I stared at my monster. What did I need? Not things. Not the perfect lipstick or another candle or throw pillows that would fix my life. Those were bandages on a wound that needed surgery.

"Rules." The word surprised me. "Someone to say no when the monster gets loud. Someone who won't let Emmy hurt herself anymore." I looked up, meeting his eyes through my tears. "Someone who sees the real Emmy, not the monster."

His expression cracked, just for a moment. Something raw and honest flickered through before the professional mask returned. But I'd seen it. The way my words hit him somewhere unguarded.

"You're very brave, Emmy." He used the child-name naturally, without mockery. "Very brave to show me your monster. To name it. That takes incredible courage."

"It's ugly." I looked at the drawing—all those angry colors and reaching hands and dollar sign teeth. "Emmy made something ugly."

"You made something honest. That's never ugly." He reached for something I couldn't see, then held up a sheet of gold foil stars. The kind teachers used, the kind that once meant everything. "This deserves recognition."

My breath caught. Such a small thing, a sticker worth maybe a penny. But when he peeled one off and placed it carefully in the corner of my drawing, something in my chest exploded. Pride and grief and relief all tangled together.

"My first gold star." The words came out wobbly, caught between laughter and tears.

"First of many, I hope." He set the drawing aside carefully, like it mattered. Like I mattered. "You've done incredibly hard work today. How do you feel?"

Empty. Full. Scraped clean. Ready to build something new. All of the above.

"Like the monster's still there," I admitted, voice sliding back toward my adult register. "But maybe . . . maybe it doesn't have to be in charge anymore."

"No," he agreed. "It doesn't. You're in charge. And you have help now."

The gold star caught the light, winking at me like a promise.

I let out a long, lingering sigh.

"You've done intense emotional work." Dr. Whitlow's voice came gentle but sure. "Your nervous system needs help regulating. Can you stand?"

I tried, but my legs had other ideas. They trembled like I'd run a marathon. His hand appeared in my peripheral—steady, patient, palm up in invitation rather than demand.

"I got you."

---