Jocelyn's POV
Mia's teacher calls during my lunch break.
"She's not in trouble."
Mrs. Calloway says quickly—the universal precursor to news that still isn't good.
"But I wanted to flag some behavioral changes. Mia's been quieter lately. Withdrawn during group activities. Yesterday she told another student that her mommy was too busy to come to school events anymore."
The words hit like a slap delivered with gentle hands.
I set down my sandwich—the one I'd forced myself to eat because the baby needs calories even when my stomach wants nothing—and press my fingers against my desk until the pressure replaces the ache spreading through my chest.
"She drew something during free art time," Mrs. Calloway continues. "I'm sending a photo."
The image loads on my phone. Mia's usual tigers—but these are different. The tiger family she always draws has been separated.
One tiger stands alone on the left side of the page, surrounded by buildings and tiny stick figures that look like reporters with microphones. The other tigers are clustered on the right, far away, watching.
The alone tiger has curly hair. My curly hair.
"She said the tiger is working," Mrs. Calloway adds gently. "That it wants to come home but can't because the bad people won't let it."
I close my eyes. Six years old. My daughter is six years old and she's processing my absence through art because the adults in her life are too consumed by their own war to notice the casualties happening at kitchen tables and school desks.
"Thank you for telling me. I'll talk to her tonight."
"Mrs. Wolfe, I don't mean to overstep, but—if this continues, the school counselor is available. Mia's a resilient kid, but children internalize more than we think. Especially at this age."
"I understand. I'll handle it."
After we hang up, I sit staring at the drawing. That solitary tiger surrounded by threat, separated from the family by distance and danger. My daughter drew herself out of the picture entirely—the tiger isn't Mia.
It's me. She's watching her mother disappear into work and stress and crisis, and she's made sense of it the only way a six-year-old can.
By drawing what she sees. And what she sees is a mother who's not there.
I'm packing my bag before I've consciously decided to leave.
First time in weeks I've left the foundation before five, and the guilt is immediate—meetings left unattended, emails unanswered, the Henderson proposal still sitting half-finished on my desktop.
But the image of that solitary tiger overrides everything.
***
I'm crossing the parking lot toward my car when Aiden falls into step beside me. Outside, in the open air, where anyone driving past could see two people having a casual conversation in the afternoon sun.
"Leaving early?" He matches my pace without effort. "That's not like you."
My grip tightens on my bag strap. "Stay away from me, Aiden."
"Public sidewalk." His smile is pleasant, practiced. "Free country. I'm just walking."
I keep moving. He keeps pace. The parking lot is half-empty this time of day—enough cars to feel populated, few enough people to make this feel isolated despite the open sky.
"How's Mia doing?" The question is surgical in its precision. "Must be hard for her—mommy at work all the time, stress at home, all those changes in routine. Kids internalize more than we think."
The exact phrase Mrs. Calloway used twenty minutes ago. Coincidence or confirmation that Aiden's reach extends further than I'd imagined—either option makes my skin crawl.
"Walk away," I say without breaking stride. "Now."
"Just expressing concern for my niece." He stops walking, letting me pull ahead. His voice carries easily across the distance. "Take care of yourself, Jocelyn. Both of you."
I reach my car, get in, lock the doors. Watch him in the rearview mirror—standing in the parking lot with his hands in his pockets, patient and knowing, watching me drive away with the unhurried confidence of someone who has nowhere to be because the damage is already done.
Both of you. Not both of you and Mia. Both of you—me and the baby. Another reminder. Another thread pulled.
I pick Mia up from school myself instead of sending Helena's wife.
She sees me at the pickup line and her face does something that destroys me—surprise first, then joy so unguarded it looks like pain. She runs to me like I've been gone for months instead of hours, small body colliding with my legs, arms wrapping tight.
"Mama! You came!"
"Of course I came, baby."
"But you never come anymore." The words aren't accusatory. They're factual, delivered with the devastating honesty of a child who's simply reporting what she observes. "You're always at work or on the phone or talking to Daddy about serious things."
I crouch to her level, brushing wild curls from her face. "I know. I've been too busy, and that's not okay."
"Is it because of the bad people?" Her eyes are wide, searching. "The ones who say mean things about Daddy on the computer?"
My throat constricts. "You know about that?"
"Kids at school say stuff sometimes. Lily's mom showed Lily a video and Lily told everyone during recess." She picks at the strap of her backpack. "I told them Daddy's not mean. But they didn't believe me."
Jesus Christ. Six years old and defending her father against allegations she shouldn't even know exist, weaponized by schoolyard politics and parents who treat other people's trauma like entertainment.
"Listen to me." I take her hands. "Daddy is a good person. The people saying those things don't know him the way we do. And I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—that you've had to hear any of it."
"It's okay, Mama." She squeezes my fingers with the certainty of someone who's decided to be brave. "I'm still a tiger. Remember?"
The laugh that escapes me sounds more like a sob. "The strongest tiger I know."
"Can we get ice cream? Tigers need ice cream after hard days."
"Tigers absolutely need ice cream after hard days."
We drive to the place on Atlantic that has the rainbow sprinkles she likes, and I watch her eat a cone bigger than her face while chattering about a caterpillar her class found during recess.
Normal things. Beautiful things. The kinds of conversations I've been missing because I've been too busy documenting Aiden's threats and fielding donor withdrawal calls and managing a crisis that's consuming everything, including the six-year-old sitting across from me with chocolate on her chin.
I take a photo. Send it to Zayden: ‘Ice cream emergency. She's fine. We need to talk tonight about Mia.’
His response comes in seconds: ‘What happened?’
‘Teacher called. She's drawing lonely tigers and defending you during recess. I'll explain at home.’
While Mia works on the last bites of her cone, I pull up Dr. Morrison's number—the therapist I've been seeing since we started rebuilding our lives.
I type a message: ‘Do you have a recommendation for a child psychologist? My daughter is six, processing family stress she shouldn't be carrying. Sooner is better.’
The reply comes before we leave the shop: ‘Dr. Amara Singh. She's wonderful with children. I'll send the referral today.’
In the car on the way home, Mia falls asleep with her head against the window, ice cream cone reduced to a soggy napkin in her lap.
I drive slowly, watching her in the rearview mirror—the rise and fall of her chest, the curl of her fingers around her seatbelt, the absolute trust of a child who believes her mother will keep her safe.
That trust is the only thing Aiden can't fabricate, can't manipulate, can't weaponize.
But I can lose it. One missed school pickup at a time, one lonely tiger drawing at a time, one "you never come anymore" at a time—I can lose the thing that matters most by fighting to protect everything else.
Not anymore.
I reach behind me and rest my hand on her knee, gentle enough not to wake her.
"I see you," I whisper. "I'm sorry I stopped looking."
The foundation can survive without me for an afternoon. My daughter shouldn't have to.