He finally lifted his head. “How can I be when something like this happens?” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper, placing it unfolded on my desk.
I took the sheet into my hands, seeing that it was a drawing Everly had done. Not that I could distinguish her art from anyone else her age, but pink was her favorite color, and almost the entire drawing was done in magenta. The picture was of a table, two stick figures sitting in chairs around it.
But there was a third placement—a section that was scratched out in black crayon.
A spot where her mother was supposed to be sitting.
You didn’t have to be a psychologist to understand what was happening here.
“She’s angry,” I said, looking up at him.
“And resentful.”
I knew how much this was hurting h
