“I miss my child.”
“I know.”
Andrew cried too.
No one won.
They created rules.
Not legal rules.
Family rules.
Sophie could access the memory box.
Not secretly.
No more adult gatekeeping based solely on Andrew’s grief.
But videos would be watched one at a time with advance choice.
Sophie could stop.
Adults would not force reactions.
Margaret could share memories.
She could not frame Caroline as replacement or threat.
Andrew would tell Caroline enough about the contents to prevent surprises.
Caroline did not have to watch anything.
Sophie did not have to include her.
No one got veto power over Hannah.
No one got to use Hannah to control the living.
That last sentence came from Caroline later.
Everyone hated it.
Then adopted it.
The locket returned from the jeweler three days later.
Caroline paid thirty-eight dollars for a new clasp and reinforcement ring.
No engraving.
No redesign.
Nothing that made her part of the object.
When she handed it to Sophie, the child inspected it seriously.
“Strong?”
“Yes.”
“How strong?”
“Stronger than before.”
“Can I pull?”
“No.”
Sophie laughed.
Then placed it around her neck.
Caroline helped close the clasp.
Her hands trembled slightly.
Sophie noticed.
“Scared?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
Caroline looked at the tiny silver oval resting against the child’s dress.
“Because I don't want to hurt your feelings again.”
Sophie thought.
“You probably will.”
Caroline stared.
Then laughed.
“Probably.”
“Dad does.”
“Yes.”
“Grandma does.”
“Definitely.”
Sophie smiled.
Caroline continued.
“The goal is not never hurting each other.”
“What is?”
She thought.
“Noticing.”
“Fixing what we can.”
“And not pretending it didn't happen.”
Sophie nodded as if filing the information for later.
She would use it against all of them eventually.
Therapy began two weeks later.
Andrew resisted the word family therapy.
Not because he opposed therapy.
Because he already had an individual therapist and believed that should count.
Caroline said:
“You having a therapist is not the same as us learning to live together.”
He went.
Dr. Elena Ramirez specialized in childhood grief and blended families.
She was forty-five, wore bright glasses, and kept almost no toys in the office except wooden figures, markers, and one overused stuffed fox.
Sophie chose the fox.
First session.
Dr. Ramirez asked:
“Who is in your family?”
Sophie pointed to figures.
“Dad.”
“Caroline.”
“Me.”
“Grandma Margaret.”
“Grandma Lynn.”
Caroline’s mother.
“Uncle Jonah.”
“Aunt Mel.”
Then she added another figure.
“Mom.”
No one reacted.
That was deliberate.
Dr. Ramirez looked at Sophie.
“Where does Mom live?”
The child frowned.
“Heaven.”
Dr. Ramirez nodded.
“And also?”
Sophie thought.
“In pictures.”
“Videos.”
“Me.”
Andrew looked down.
Caroline’s eyes filled.
Dr. Ramirez asked:
“Does Mom need a chair in the house?”
Sophie looked confused.
“No.”
“Does Caroline need Mom’s chair?”
“No.”
“Does Caroline need to become Mom?”
“No.”
“Does Mom need Caroline to disappear?”
Sophie’s eyes widened.
“No.”
Simple.
Not easy.
Later Dr. Ramirez asked the adults a harder question.
“What job have you assigned Sophie?”