Mia hadn't cried that day either. She'd simply climbed down and walked away.
"She stopped trying," Ruth said quietly. "Two months ago, she stopped bringing Miss Vivian things. Stopped sitting near her. Children try and try, Mr. Bellamy, until something teaches them to stop."
Then Ruth placed something on the desk: a child's drawing. Crayon crooked lines, two figures: one tall, one small, the small one in blue. Underneath, in letters Ruth had clearly helped her spell, four words: Me and my dad. Just the two of them.
"She drew this two weeks ago," Ruth said. "She never showed it to anyone. She put it straight in her drawer."
Marcus held that drawing for a long time in absolute silence. It told him everything a hundred conversations couldn't have.
By that afternoon, Vivian had packed two bags and left without raising her voice or slamming a single door.
Upstairs, standing on her bed to see out the window, Mia watched the car disappear between the trees. Then she sat down, picked up her stuffed rabbit, and waited. She knew her father's footsteps before she ever saw him.
The door opened.
"Is she gone?" Mia asked.