Free Thought I Knew You by Kate Moretti

head. She couldn’t help me; no one could. There were no instruction manuals on how to talk to a four-year-old about her missing parent.
    I held Hannah and inhaled the scent of her hair—berry shampoo and remnants of babyhood. She was growing into a child faster than I could handle. I prayed that I would do and say the right things, that I could guide her through the crisis, regardless of the outcome, as unscathed as possible. I wished they’d have as little fear as possible, as little uncertainty as possible, and hoped my desire to protect their small hearts would be enough. That my love would, somehow, be enough.
    “Mommy, don’t be sad.” Hannah touched my cheek, a gesture absorbed from four years of observation, grown up beyond her years. “Daddy still loves us. You said so, right?”
    I nodded, unable to answer. I held Hannah in one arm and Leah in the other, and gave Mom a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, I mouthed, quietly buckling them in the car. I drove into the setting sun, to the home that didn’t feel like a home anymore.
    Chapter 11
    W hen I picked Hannah up from school on Friday, her teacher pulled me aside. She had a long blond ponytail and wore jeans that hung too low on her hips for a preschool teacher. I had seen more than one dad ogle her during pick up, and I remember thinking, Not Greg, thank God. What a joke that had become. I motioned to another teacher in the school-age room, and she took Hannah’s hand, guiding her gently into the neighboring classroom.
    “Mrs. Barnes, I wanted to tell you, today we interviewed the children. You know, what are your mommy’s and daddy’s names? Your favorite food, your favorite toy, and so on. When we asked Hannah what her daddy did for a living, she said he was lost and that he took her dog with him.” She paused then, looking at the ceiling, not knowing where to go. “I think, um… maybe you should talk to her about her dad?”
    I clenched my fists at my sides and concentrated on not slapping her. “Miss Katie, what do you suggest I tell her? Besides the truth? That yes, her daddy is missing. I’m wondering what you, not being a mother, not having any life experience whatsoever, would tell your four-year-old. That her daddy left her? That’s possible. That he’s been murdered? That’s possible. Please. Advise me. I’d love to know what they’re teaching in the community college early childhood education classes these days about how to appropriately make a fucking four-year-old understand that her daddy might not be coming home, but maybe he will. Who the hell knows?”
    I grabbed Hannah, who stood wide-eyed in the doorway, and left Miss Katie gaping with her mouth open. I could see the tears shimmering in her eyes and a very, very small part of me felt completely terrible. But most of me felt fantastic.
    “Mommy,” Hannah said, “you said a really bad word.”
    I sighed. I seemed to fail miserably at keeping the poor kid from being terrified at every turn. I kissed her head. “Yes, I did, Hannah-banana, and it wasn’t nice.” I gave her a big smile. “It’s our secret, okay? So, what do you want for dinner? Anything you want. Ice cream? Pizza? You pick, aaaaannnnnyyyy dinner you want,” I sing-songed.
    Hannah thought for a second. “Can I have broccoli?”
    I laughed and ruffled her hair. “Sure. You can definitely have broccoli if that’s what you want. You’re so weird, kiddo!”
    When we got home, the four of us had dinner, a playact of a suburban family. Drew asked Hannah about school. Leah threw food, and Hannah scolded her. We watched The Little Mermaid , which Drew kept pretending he’d never seen, dramatically exclaiming over every scene, extracting giggles galore from Hannah. I gave the girls a bath and tucked them into bed. Low chords of sleep music drifted from their bedrooms, overlapping in a disorganized orchestra, the eerie result being both dissonant and harmonious at the same time.
    Drew and I sat in the living room on