Chapter 7 - Sophia’s Question
I found a child therapist that week.
Not because Sophia was broken.
Because she deserved a room where nobody needed her to protect adult feelings.
Dr. Allison Grant met with both girls separately and together.
No courtroom language.
No interrogation.
Only:
How did dinner feel?
What did you think?
What do you want?
Sophia said:
“I thought Dad would stand up.”
Then:
“He didn’t.”
Chloe said:
“Grandma took fish.”
Five years old.
Concrete.
Then Sophia:
“Grandma said girls don’t keep family going.”
Dr. Grant asked:
“What do you think?”
Sophia looked at me.
Then:
“I don’t know.”
That hurt.
Children borrow adult certainty.
Patricia had been certain.
Andrew had been silent.
I had to build something stronger than counter-slogans.
I said:
“Families continue because people choose to care for each other.”
Dr. Grant nodded.
Then Sophia asked:
“Then why did Dad choose investors?”
I had no easy answer.
We scheduled another session.
Andrew requested contact.
I did not block him from children.
No abuse allegation against them physically.
But after the banquet, Sophia did not want dinner alone.
We agreed through counsel to a supervised family therapy visit initially.
Andrew protested.
“You’re treating me like a criminal.”
I replied through our parenting app:
I’m treating Sophia’s expressed fear and distress seriously.
He attended.
Dr. Grant later told me only general observations.
Andrew apologized.
“I should have stopped my mother.”
Sophia asked:
“Why didn’t you?”
He said:
“Because I was under pressure.”
Wrong.
She knew.
“What pressure?”
“Work.”
Then:
“Does work make you not love us?”
Andrew cried.
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you come?”
Silence.
He finally said:
“I cared too much what people thought.”
Closer.
Then Sophia:
“Were you ashamed we’re girls?”
“No.”
“But Grandma is.”
“Yes.”
“And you let her.”
“Yes.”
That was the first truthful answer he gave her.
Then Chloe:
“Can I have cake?”
Dr. Grant laughed.
Kids.
Afterward Andrew tried to talk to me in hallway.
“Lauren.”
“Use the app.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“No.”
Then:
“I didn’t know Mom would take their plates.”
“I believe you.”
His face softened.
Then:
“You knew she was planning to provoke me and keep me away from investors.”
He stopped.
“You read emails.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t about the girls.”
I stared.
“It became about them when you let her use them.”
He looked away.
Then:
“Peter Carlisle is pulling out.”
“I know.”
“You could fix that.”
“No.”
“One call.”
“No.”
“You don’t even have to invest. Just tell him the support letter reflected intent.”
“It didn’t.”
“Lauren.”
There.
That tone.
The one that meant:
I need your reality to become easier for me.
I stepped closer.
“You forged my signature.”
“I copied a signature on a draft I knew you’d approve.”
“No.”
“You funded me before.”
“No means no even after yes.”
His jaw tightened.
Then:
“If Vance Legacy fails, our daughters lose too.”
“No.”
“They lose their father’s company.”
“Maybe.”
“They lose lifestyle.”
“They will still have food.”
He flinched.
Good.
Then he said:
“Mom has apologized.”
“She has not.”
“She said she went too far.”
That was not apology.
Then:
“What do you want?”
I answered:
“For you to stop asking what performance will make this disappear.”
He stared.
I walked away.
That evening, Grace sent another document.
A board resolution.
Not Vance & Horizon this time.
Vance Legacy Development.
Andrew had represented to his own minority investors that a “related family capital commitment” had been approved.
The board minutes did not show approval.
One director had objected.
Andrew overrode him.
Then the director’s email:
Andrew, if Lauren has not signed, you cannot represent sponsor support as committed.
Andrew replied:
She will.
Same future tense.
Again.
Then another:
She always does once the noise dies down.
I read that line several times.
Andrew’s entire business model had quietly begun to depend on one belief.
May you like
Eventually, Lauren gives in.
This time, I would not.
