Free This Raging Light by Estelle Laure

says. “Take your time.”
    It says:
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My Hero
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    My hero is the Barefoot Contessa. The Contessa bakes and she’s round. The Contessa always has people over to eat dinner and we never have people over except Eden and Digby. The Contessa lives in a pretty house and our house isn’t pretty. She has a soft voice and I bet her hugs are like pie. I bet she would tell me I’m pretty even though I’m not and that she would never leave ever.
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    I put the paper down. Mrs. LaRouche sits across from me. “Do you talk about this last summer’s events within the household?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œI believe those events affected Wren much more than she is willing to admit, and I’m concerned that if the issue is not addressed openly within the home, it will begin to eat away at her. She needs a place to express herself without fear of repercussion.”
    I nod.
    â€œAt this point, I would recommend some family counseling. There are some wonderful people who specialize here in town.” She hands me a piece of paper with some names. “But if you don’t pursue that avenue, it might be good for Wren to feel she has somewhere safe to discuss her feelings. Often,” she goes on, “a gifted child such as Wren can unconsciously take on all the guilt and sadness associated with a situation like this.” She reaches a cool hand across to mine. “There can be some depression, of course.”
    â€œShe seems happy.”
    â€œEventual drug use, violence, eating disorders . . .”
    â€œOkay!” I say with more force than I mean to. “Okay,” I say, softer. “I will tell my mom to sign these papers so Wren can talk to someone. We’ll take care of it.”
    I want to get out of here. I want to run to the playground and squeeze Wren because she sees everything—is seeing too much—and I can’t stop it or help it or help her. I want to pause everything for Wren, charm her into unconsciousness like Sleeping Beauty, and wake her with a kiss on the cheek when I have fixed everything.
    â€œShe seems to be connected to Melanie St. James a little. Do you know her?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “We’ve played at the park a couple of times.”
    â€œWell, your mother might encourage Wren to explore that friendship. Could be helpful. You never know.”
    I nod.
    â€œAnd you, honey?” She squeezes my hand, and I realize she’s been holding it for a really long time.
    My mouth starts to shake. I hope she will not ask me directly how I am doing.
    â€œYes, it must be hard for all of you, especially with your mother working so many hours, having to do it all on her own.”
    Ha. Ha!
    â€œI was glad to hear that Wren didn’t bear witness,” she says. “But you did, didn’t you? You saw what he did to her?”
    My stupid, weak inside self has shrunken down to nothing and climbed out of this tiny desk and is holding on to Mrs. LaRouche like she is the only good thing on earth. I pull my hand free. I will not cry in front of this woman.
    I make a move to leave. Smile as best I can. “We’ll take care of Wren, Mrs. LaRouche. She won’t be any trouble for you.”
    â€œShe isn’t any trouble, darling,” she lilts. “She’s just going through something. It happens to all of us a time or two in this life.” She stands too, rests her hands on her ancient tribal-print dress. “I just want her to make it, to thrive. I want that for both of you.”
    â€œThank you,” I say, and I mean it. I want us to make it too.
    â€œI’m so sorry you’re sad, sweetheart,” she says as I reach the door. “It really is a shame. You were such a joyful child.”
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    After that, I need some time to think, and Shane offers to take Melanie and Wren for ice cream since it’s Friday and she doesn’t have to work. Neither of us does.
    I haven’t