Chapter 9 - Ellie Had Been Telling Me More Than I Wanted to Hear
After the coffee incident, Ellie became frightened of:
ceramic mugs.
Not all cups.
Mugs.
If someone carried one near her, she moved toward:
me.
The pediatric therapist said not to dramatize it.
Keep her safe.
Use calm language.
Let time do:
work.
I started paying closer attention to the words Ellie had used before the incident.
Grandma mad.
I once answered:
“Grandma gets grumpy sometimes.”
No chair.
I assumed:
high-chair complaints.
No cry Gamma.
I thought she meant:
Grandma tells me not to cry.
I disliked it.
Not enough.
Then I remembered something from six weeks earlier.
I picked Ellie up after a long workday.
She clung to my neck.
Linda said:
“She’s been ridiculous all afternoon.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted her stuffed rabbit during quiet time.”
“So?”
“I told her no because she threw it.”
“Why did she throw it?”
“She was angry.”
“She’s two.”
“Exactly.”
I remember seeing Ellie’s rabbit on:
top of the refrigerator.
Out of reach.
I took it down.
Linda snapped:
“She hasn’t earned it back.”
I answered:
“It’s her comfort toy.”
“She uses you.”
I laughed because the idea of a two-year-old running an advanced manipulation campaign seemed absurd.
Then I took Ellie home.
That should have been:
information.
I treated it as:
annoyance.
Why?
Because I wanted to believe childcare could be:
imperfect
without becoming:
unsafe.
That belief is usually true.
Different parenting styles do not automatically equal abuse.
But discomfort deserves:
attention
before proof arrives.
I had kept waiting for proof.
Coffee became:
proof.
May you like
Too late.
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