Chapter 5 - Things Amelia Thought Were Rules
The school counselor’s office had soft blue chairs and a shelf filled with sensory toys.
Gabriel sat beside Amelia while Dr. Renee Lawson spoke gently.
“Amelia, can I ask you about dinner at home?”
Amelia nodded.
Gabriel had promised himself he would not interrupt.
It became one of the hardest promises he had ever kept.
“Where do you usually eat?”
“With Daddy, at the table.”
“And when Daddy travels?”
Amelia touched the zipper on her backpack.
“Sometimes kitchen.”
“On a chair?”
“No.”
Gabriel closed his eyes briefly.
Dr. Lawson continued.
“Where in the kitchen?”
“Floor.”
“How often?”
Amelia counted silently on her fingers.
“Lots.”
Gabriel’s hands tightened together.
“Who told you to sit there?”
“Grandma.”
“Did she tell you why?”
Amelia nodded.
“I chew loud.”
Gabriel turned toward his daughter.
“You do not.”
Dr. Lawson gave him a small look.
He stopped.
Amelia continued.
“And I ask questions when grown-ups talk.”
“What happens if you ask questions?”
“Grandma says I’m interrupting.”
“Anything else?”
Amelia thought.
“She says big girls don’t need Daddy for everything.”
Gabriel looked at the floor.
Dr. Lawson asked, “Did Grandma ever stop you from calling your dad?”
“When I lose stars.”
“What stars?”
Amelia brightened slightly.
“There’s a chart.”
Gabriel had never seen a chart.
“What do you lose stars for?”
Amelia counted again.
“Talking too much. Asking when Daddy comes home. Telling teachers house things.”
The room became very still.
Dr. Lawson kept her voice steady.
“What happens if you lose all the stars?”
“No phone.”
“For how long?”
“One day. Sometimes two.”
Gabriel’s throat tightened.
His mother had told him Amelia was becoming less interested in video calls.
She had said Amelia often preferred games or bedtime routines.
Gabriel had believed her.
“How long has the star chart existed?” Dr. Lawson asked.
“Since Grandma said Daddy works better if I don’t make him worry.”
Gabriel looked away.
On the wall was a painting made by students.
A bright yellow sun.
Blue houses.
Stick figures holding hands.
He stared at it because looking at Amelia hurt too much.
After the interview, Dr. Lawson asked Amelia if she wanted to spend a few minutes with the school aide she liked.
Amelia agreed.
When she left, Gabriel said, “Why wasn’t I told?”
Dr. Lawson turned her computer screen toward him.
“We did contact you.”
She opened an email chain.
Three messages.
All sent to Gabriel’s correct address.
All marked read.
He had never seen them.
The replies came from his account.
Thank you. My mother is authorized to manage this issue while I travel.
Another:
Please communicate directly with Marlene for routine behavioral concerns.
Gabriel stared.
“I didn’t write these.”
Dr. Lawson sat back.
“We need to document that.”
The school’s IT department later confirmed the replies had been sent through webmail logins from an IP address associated with Gabriel’s home.
Someone had used his computer.
That afternoon, he returned home while Marlene and Everett were out.
He went directly to the office.
The desk drawers held nothing unusual.
Then he remembered Amelia’s phrase.
Blue papers.
He searched the storage cabinet.
At the bottom was a blue accordion folder.
Inside were copies of trust invoices.
Printed emails.
Gabriel’s travel itineraries.
School notes.
And something worse.
A draft document from the law office.
Petition Regarding Third-Party Custodial Standing and Temporary Care Authority.
It had not been filed.
But attached was a typed declaration supposedly written by Marlene.
It described Gabriel as “frequently absent,” “emotionally exhausted” and “unable to provide consistent structure for a disabled minor.”
Gabriel read the phrase twice.
A disabled minor.
Not Amelia.
Not her granddaughter.
A legal category.
Evidence.
There were photographs attached.
Amelia’s messy bedroom.
An unwashed breakfast plate.
A calendar showing Gabriel’s travel dates.
And one photograph of Amelia crying beside the front window.
Gabriel remembered that day.
His flight had been canceled.
Amelia thought he was coming home.
Marlene had photographed her disappointment.
Then apparently planned to use it as evidence against him.
Gabriel’s hands shook.
Behind the petition draft was a handwritten note.
Need documented incidents of instability.
Below it:
Meals / meltdowns / dependency / inability to self-regulate.
Gabriel stared at the word meals.
The floor.
It had not only been cruelty.
It might have been part of a story Marlene was building.
A story in which Amelia looked difficult.
Gabriel looked toward the doorway.
Amelia stood there.
“How come you have Grandma’s secret folder?”
Gabriel forced his voice to remain gentle.
“Did Grandma tell you it was secret?”
Amelia nodded.
“She said never touch the blue folder.”
“Did she tell you why?”
Amelia hesitated.
May you like
Then she said something that made every hair on his arms rise.
“Because it decides where I live.”
