Chapter 16 - The Voice of a Child
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With Grant finally locked away in a federal holding facility awaiting trial, a quiet peace descended over our life in Seattle.
Every Tuesday afternoon, I took Lila to see Dr. Aris, a pediatric trauma specialist whose office overlooked the green gardens of Washington Park. For weeks, Lila had barely spoken during her sessions, choosing instead to build elaborate, silent towers out of wooden blocks.
But three weeks after Grant’s arrest, something shifted.
I sat in the waiting room when the office door clicked open. Dr. Aris stepped out, smiling warmly, and gestured for me to come inside.
Lila was sitting at a small child's table, holding a bright red crayon. On the paper in front of her was a drawing of a small girl standing on top of a giant, crumbling wooden chair, holding hands with a stick-figure man wearing a blue coat.
"Look, Uncle Evan," Lila said softly, holding up the drawing. "I broke the chair."
I crouched down beside her, blinking back tears as I looked at the picture. "You sure did, kiddo. You broke it into a million pieces."
"Dr. Aris says I don't ever have to sit in a bad chair again," she whispered, reaching out to hug my neck. "And she said Daddy can't come to Seattle."
"He can't ever come here, Lila," I promised, holding her tight. "He's going away for a very long time."
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That evening, as we cooked dinner together in my apartment, Lila did something she had never done before—she reached up, grabbed a wooden chair from the dining table, dragged it across the floor, and sat down on it to help me slice bananas for dessert.
She didn't flinch. She didn't lean to the left. She just smiled.
