Page 57 of This Kind of Forever

“This paint is different than what you’re used to,” I explain. “We have to use some water. It’s a little like magic.”

I demonstrate, swirling my brush through the paint and then swiping it across my page. Abbie watches in wonder, then picks up her own brush and tries it for herself.

We paint in silence for a while. I don’t want to pressure her into talking if she’s not ready, but I’m hoping she’ll decide to open up. I hate thinking of her keeping her emotions bottled up.

“Daddy said you’re the best at painting,” she says eventually. She frowns at her paper. “I’m not very good.”

“You know what I love about art?” She looks at me, eyes wide in that curious kid way. “You don’t have to be great or good or anything at all. You can justbe. Some people make art as their job, but I like being free to create whatever I want, whenever I want. It helps me process my feelings.”

She turns back to her paper, swirling her brush across it in abstract strokes.

“Sometimes it’s hard to know what we’re feeling,” I continue. “Especially when the emotions are new or they feelreallybig. But once I’ve figured it out, it’s a bit easier to talk about them.”

I let the quiet settle over us again.

Eventually, she speaks. “Daddy made me mad.”

I set my brush down. “Do you know why you felt mad?”

“He got me from school, and he asked why I was sad. And I didn’t wanna tell him, but he wanted me to, and that made me mad.”

“Did something happen today at school?” She hesitates, so I add, “You don’t have to tell me, but you may feel better if you do. How about you practice on me so you can tell your dad after?”

She curls the corner of her page between her thumb and forefinger. “My teacher got me in trouble for talking when she was talking,” she mumbles. Her cheeks pinken at the admission, and she ducks her head.

The pieces begin to click. “Getting in trouble doesn’t feel very good, does it?”

When she looks up at me, her eyes are shining. She shakes her head. “No. Everyone looked at me! That made me mad, too.And I didn’t want Daddy to know because he doesn’t like me being bad at school.”

My heart tugs. “Emotions are complicated. Sometimes we think we feel one thing when it’s actually something else. Remember how you said that about Gordon? How he might really be sad, not angry? It sounds to me like maybe you weren’t actually mad, you were just embarrassed.”

“What’s that?” she asks.

“What did your body feel like when your classmates were looking at you?”

She presses her hands to her cheeks. “My face felt like it was onfire. And I wanted to hide.”

“That’s what embarrassment can feel like. It also means that sometimes, we don’t like talking about the poor decisions we’ve made because we don’t want to disappoint the people who love us,” I say. “But let me tell you something. The people who love us? They’re not going to love us any less for being wrong. We just have to try to do the right thing the next time.”

“I’m not supposed to talk when my teacher’s talking,” she says.

I nod. “If you go to school on Monday and say sorry, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

“Will Daddy forgive me for slamming my door?” she asks. “I’m not supposed to do that either. That’s mean.”

This girl. She has the kindest, softest heart.

“Why don’t you go talk to him? Tell him what you told me.”

She looks unsure, but she slowly agrees. “Will you be there with me?”

“Yeah. I’ve got your back, babe.”

Together, Abbie and I clean up our mess of paints. We leave our papers to dry on the table. Then she takes a fortifying breath and walks with me down the stairs.

We find Gabe in the kitchen, starting on Abbie’s dinner. Abbie looks at me for reassurance, then crosses the room to him. I lean against the doorframe, watching them.

Abbie grabs the hem of her shirt with both hands, stretching the fabric slightly. “I’m sorry I was mean, Daddy,” she says quietly. “I thought I was mad, but I was really…” She trails off, then looks over her shoulder. “Hallie, what’s the word?”