Chapter 24 - Gigi heals
Physically, Gigi healed in days.
The cheek bruise faded.
The tiny lip abrasion disappeared.
No dental damage.
No neurological problem.
Emotion lasted longer.
For three months she became anxious around Arthur-looking men.
White shirt.
Dark pants.
Stupid coincidence.
Then less.
She also started saying:
“No hit.”
whenever adults raised their voices.
Her therapist used play.
Dolls.
Toy kitchen.
A family of wooden animals.
No repeated interrogation.
One day Gigi took the toy father bear and made him sit far away.
The therapist asked:
“Where does he go?”
“Chair.”
“Why?”
“He hit.”
Maybe Arthur.
Maybe ordinary toddler play.
Nobody turned it into evidence.
That restraint mattered.
By three and a half, Gigi remembered:
“Arthur hit my face.”
By four, the memory became less precise.
We did not correct her into a witness.
She was allowed to forget.
The adults had records.
At four she asked:
“Does Arthur hate me?”
I said:
“No.”
“Why hit?”
“Because he was angry and thought he was allowed to punish you.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
She thought.
“Mommy kicked Grandma.”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“Were you allowed?”
“No.”
There it was.
I had always planned to tell her.
She had absorbed it from family anyway.
“What happened?”
“I was very angry because Arthur hurt you. Grandma stepped in front of me, and I kicked her.”
“Why?”
“Because I made a bad choice while I was angry.”
Gigi stared.
“Like Arthur?”
My ego wanted a distinction.
I gave truth.
“Both of us used our bodies in ways we shouldn’t have. What Arthur did to you and what I did to Grandma were different situations, but I was still wrong to kick her.”
Gigi nodded.
Then:
“Did you say sorry?”
“Yes.”
I had.
Not immediately.
Through my diversion and later directly.
May you like
“Good.”
Accountability is annoying when your own child applies it consistently.
