I have a 6yo daughter, Lily, who has always been difficult. Tantrums, hitting, screaming over small things. We finally took her to a child psychologist.
Last week, she emailed me saying she wouldn’t continue treating Lily, it was “best for everyone.”
I called Dr. Harper again, and she finally revealed that during their last session, the kid whispered something that left her shaken. “She said… ‘When I grow up, I’ll hurt mommy the way she hurts me.
I’ll make her cry every day, like she does to me.’”
I stood there in silence, my phone pressed to my ear, the hallway suddenly colder than before. My breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t even sure if I’d heard correctly.
Me? Hurting Lily? I’d never laid a hand on her.
I mean, sure, I’d raised my voice. I’d snapped. But who wouldn’t, when a kid throws a juice box at your face for giving her the “wrong” cereal?
“I think,” Dr. Harper said gently, “you both need help. But I can’t be that help anymore.”
I didn’t know what to say.
After I hung up, I just sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. My husband, Dan, was at work, and the house was silent except for Lily singing to her stuffed animals in the next room. Her voice was soft, even sweet.
It was hard to reconcile that sound with what I’d just heard. That night, I watched her sleep. Her chest rising and falling in little puffs, her fingers curled around a raggedy unicorn.
She looked so peaceful. So… harmless. But those words haunted me.
“I’ll make her cry every day.”
The next morning, I told Dan what the psychologist had said. He didn’t take it well. “She must have misunderstood,” he said immediately.
“Lily doesn’t even talk like that.”
“She does with us, no. But maybe when she’s alone… maybe she feels things she doesn’t tell us.”
Dan frowned. “You think she really believes you hurt her?”
I didn’t know.
I honestly didn’t know. That night, I didn’t sleep much. I started watching Lily more closely.
Not just her tantrums, but the quiet moments too—how she shrank back when I reached for her hair to brush it. How she flinched when I raised my voice at the dog. She wasn’t afraid of me physically… but maybe emotionally, I’d become a giant she didn’t know how to navigate.
A few days later, I picked her up from school and decided to take the long route home. We passed by a park. It was chilly, but sunny.
“Wanna stop for a bit?” I asked. She shrugged. “Okay.”
We sat on a swing together.
She didn’t say much, just kicked her legs a little. “You know,” I began, “when I was little, I had big feelings too. Sometimes I didn’t know what to do with them.”
She looked at me, curious.
“Like what?”
“Like sadness. Or anger. Sometimes I yelled.
Or I cried when I didn’t want to. But I didn’t know how to ask for help.”
Lily was quiet. Then, softly, she said, “Sometimes you yell like that too.”
I nodded.
“I know. And I’m sorry, sweetie. I think I’ve made things harder for you.”
That night, after she went to bed, I started writing down every time I got mad.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
