Chapter 2 - Chloe Had Spent Her Childhood Asking Me Not to Cross-Examine Her
I became a federal prosecutor when Chloe was four.
By the time she was ten, she had developed one excellent defensive phrase:
“Stop being a lawyer, Mom.”
I hated it.
Because she was usually right.
If Chloe said:
“Teacher hates me.”
I asked:
“What exactly did she say?”
“Who else heard it?”
“What happened before?”
If she said:
“My friend is lying.”
Same.
When she got caught sneaking a second phone into middle school, I asked questions until she finally shouted:
“I’m your daughter, not a witness.”
That sentence changed me.
Probably too much.
I began overcorrecting.
When she went to college:
I stopped asking details.
When she dated men I disliked:
I kept opinions short.
When she married Marcus after fourteen months:
I said:
“You know him better than I do.”
I wanted Chloe to feel:
respected.
Not investigated.
That became a justification I would misuse later.
Marcus initially seemed:
good for her.
He worked in logistics sales for a commercial equipment company.
Not glamorous.
Stable.
Funny.
He remembered:
my birthday,
Chloe’s coffee order,
my late husband’s favorite baseball team.
My husband, Peter, died when Chloe was nineteen.
Cancer.
Marcus never met him.
But he listened when Chloe talked about her father.
That mattered to me.
At their wedding, Marcus told me:
“I know I’m not replacing anybody.”
I said:
“Good.”
He smiled.
“I’m just trying to take care of her.”
At the time, that sounded:
loving.
Later I realized Marcus used the phrase:
take care of her
whenever he wanted permission to decide something for:
May you like
her.
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