Four stick figures stood hand in hand beneath a large yellow star. Three of them were easy to recognize—labeled carefully in my daughter’s uneven handwriting: Mommy, Daddy, and Me.
The fourth figure stopped my breath.
She was taller than me, with long brown hair and a bright red triangle dress. The smile on her face looked confident. Familiar, somehow.
Above her head, Ruby had written a name in big, careful letters.
MOLLY.
Ms. Allen lowered her voice. “Ruby talks about Molly a lot. Not casually. She mentions her in stories, drawings, even during singing time. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
I nodded and smiled because that’s what adults do when they’re trying not to fall apart in front of children.
But inside, something cracked.
That night, after dinner and bath time, I lay beside Ruby as I tucked her under her Christmas blanket. I brushed her hair back and asked, as casually as I could manage, “Sweetheart… who’s Molly?”
Her face lit up instantly.
“Oh! Molly is Daddy’s friend.”
My heart dropped.
“Daddy’s friend?” I repeated.
“Yeah! We see her on Saturdays.”
Saturdays.
The word echoed painfully.
“What do you do with her?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
Ruby giggled. “Fun stuff! The arcade, and the café with the cookies. Sometimes we get hot chocolate even though Daddy says it’s too sweet.”
My blood ran cold.
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