“I know.”
“You have every reason to distrust her.”
“I know.”
“But anger can tell the truth and still choose the wrong plan.”
He sat back like that sentence had struck him.
“I don’t want Emma hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t want Rachel rewarded.”
“There it is,” I said quietly.
His eyes flashed.
“What?”
“That’s the second thing. Not the first.”
He pushed away from the table.
“You think I should just hand my daughter to her?”
“No.”
“Because it sounds like you’re defending her.”
“I am not defending what she did.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I looked toward the living room, where Emma was building a tower out of wooden blocks.
“I’m asking whether Emma’s future should be built out of your pain.”
Jackson stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he might walk out.
Instead, he sank back into the chair.
His whole body folded inward.
“I don’t know how to forgive that.”
“Maybe you don’t have to forgive it today.”
“Then what do I do?”
“You make a plan that protects Emma better than revenge ever could.”
He looked toward his daughter.
Her block tower collapsed.
She laughed anyway.
That was Emma.
Always laughing at ruins.
The first supervised visit happened at the family services office downtown.
A plain beige room.
A round table.
A box of washable crayons.
Two plastic chairs that squeaked every time anyone moved.
Jackson asked me to come.
Not inside the room.
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