Weston knelt to her eye level.
“Yes, for today.
But I’m coming back Saturday to see you and Emmett.”
She looked at him with a gravity far beyond seven years.
“Are you really coming back?”
“I promise.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
And she did not hug him.
She walked over to Blythe to show her a new box of colored pencils, and Weston watched his daughter go, and Harriet saw in his eyes a distance that hurt him worse than any legal threat ever could.
That small refusal — the un-given hug, the okay that promised nothing — was Etta protecting herself, and Harriet’s heart both broke and swelled to watch her do it.
Seven-year-olds are supposed to be reckless with their love; they are supposed to fling themselves at a returning parent without calculation, because they have not yet learned that love can be a risk.
Etta had learned.
Somewhere in the last eight months, her father’s broken promises had taught her the lesson no child should learn so young: that when this particular adult says he is coming back, you do not let yourself believe it all the way, because believing it all the way and being wrong hurts too much to survive twice.
So she had built herself a small, sensible defense.