CHAPTER 18: A LETTER FOR JUNE
June began seeing a child therapist experienced in family separation. I told her she could speak freely and that she did not need to report those conversations back to me. At first she asked whether the therapist would tell her father she had taken the drive. Then she asked whether Oliver hated her. The therapist helped her separate the adults’ actions from her own identity. One afternoon June brought me a letter she had written, not to send but to help herself think. It said she wanted a family where nobody had to earn a place by being healthy, wealthy, or born a boy. I read it slowly, then asked permission to keep a copy. She nodded. “Do you think Dad loves me?” she asked. I refused to give her an answer I could not know. “I know you deserve love that feels safe and steady,” I said. “And I know none of this is because of you.” She leaned against me. We stayed that way until the afternoon light moved across the rug. Later I wrote a letter of my own. I told her how brave she had been, but also that bravery did not require carrying adults’ secrets. I promised she could be ten years old. She could be silly, impatient, curious, and occasionally wrong. She could forget homework and spill juice. Nothing about those ordinary childhood things would ever threaten her place in my heart.
