Page 82 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“Stop it,” Lisset tells him. “I’m not going to read.”
Gideon motions again and Uno places a paw on Lisset’s knee, as if to invite her to talk to him.
She’s shaking her head and I see tears forming in her eyes.
In the next instant, without any prompting from Gideon, Uno places his head in her lap, looking worried, instinct driving him to comfort her.
We can’t continue like this. Something terrible is eating away at my daughter.
I kneel next to her on the blanket and touch her shoulder. “Honey, please talk to us. What’s going on?”
Lisset’s face crumples. “I found Daddy’s letter in your drawer and I read what he wrote to you.” Tears pour down her cheeks. “He said horrible things about you and about me and how he never wanted to be a father.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
Oh no.No,no,no.
That letter was filled with hateful statements. And Lisset had read all of them.
The little girl who could read above her grade level had read and understood and internalized all of those words, because shewas clever like that. But she wasn’t emotionally mature enough to cope with their impact.
I look over at Gideon. I see in his face the same horrified realization that’s no doubt in mine.
This is why Lisset stopped reading. To protect herself. I can just imagine her logic. Reading that letter brought me pain, which means that reading equals pain; therefore, I’m going to stop reading. It probably made perfect sense in her sensitive eight-year-old brain.
My heart twists inside my chest. She sees words as weapons. And yes, they can be, but they can also be a balm to a hurting soul. Only she’s too young to understand that.
Even though the air around us is thick with a thousand things unsaid, Gideon senses this is a moment for Lisset and me. He pushes slowly to his feet, squeezes my shoulder and strokes Lisset’s hair. Then he quietly leaves, taking Uno with him.
I gather my wounded child into my arms, hugging her to me. She can’t stop crying. We sit like that for ages, rocking together.
After a while, when Lisset calms a little, it all tumbles out, how she was looking for my perfume, so she opened my bedside drawer and saw the letter there. She knew she shouldn’t read it, but Mrs. Bilson said she was the best reader in the class and Lisset wanted to read something grown-up and show everybody how grown up she was.
How devastating that she was forced to grow up too soon that day.
I press a kiss to her forehead and tell her I love her and everything will be okay.
Oliver has ruined so many things for his daughter, most notably her perception of a father figure. But now his vindictive words scrawled so carelessly on a piece of paper have tainted reading for her. Or is that my doing? After all, I was the one who kept the letter instead of destroying it.
Guilt chokes me.
All this time, Lisset has carried this horrible burden on her little shoulders, not coming to me, her mother, to help her relieve the weight of it. A weight she should never have had to carry in the first place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I climb the porch steps to my parents’ house, breathing in the scent of lilacs. May is approaching, the last month of spring, one of my favorite months. I drove straight here after dropping Lisset off at school. Although her eyes are still red and puffy from her crying spell yesterday, she seemed to be walking lighter, as though her confession removed some of the burden from her shoulders.
Gideon kept up a comforting stream of messages last night, making sure we were both okay. He wanted to come over, but I was too physically and emotionally exhausted. We arranged to meet later this afternoon before I pick Lisset up from school. I have one shoot scheduled for today, an undemanding one where I’m required to whip up milkshakes, and it should finish before one. I feel wary of unburdening myself to him and aching for his support at the same time.
Grandma opens the door and welcomes me in. I called her first thing this morning, asking if we could talk. To her credit, she didn’t ask any questions, simply told me to come over when I was ready and she’d be waiting.
I decline her offer of coffee and we make our way to the living room. I deliberately chose a time when I knew my parents wouldn’t be here. They reserve Monday mornings for grocery runs.
“Something is troubling you,” Grandma says the moment we settle on the couch. “If I have to guess, I’d say that whatever it is has been troubling you for quite some time.”
I wrap my arms tightly around my middle, struggling to find the words.
She searches my face. “Tell me what’s eating you up inside.”
