She smiled as he reeled it in—our first family excursion after the divorce. She dressed herself that morning in a bright teal tutu, scarlet tights, and unicorn sweatshirt. She walked like a mood ring.
He gently gave her the fish, guiding her fingers. “Hi, little mermaid,” he joked. She mumbled something inaudible.
He kneeled beside the stream and released it. Smooth, like he’d done it 100 times. And she lost.
Not just tears—screaming. Yelling that he damaged everything, kicking dirt.
“I TOLD HIM!” she shouted. I assured the fish he was secure with me!
Everyone stopped at the park. I attempted to grasp her, but she jerked away, crying uncontrollably. He glanced up at me and said—
Was she telling you what the school counselor stated last week? You must fix things.”
I heard nothing. He didn’t say. He used this for—
outdo me. It felt like that. Like he was proving I didn’t know my daughter.
I stared at her again. She lay on the ground, arms over her knees. Feeling deceived.
She recoiled as I bent alongside her to touch her back. “Sweetheart,” I said, “can you explain?”
She sniffled and hiccupped throughout her statement, “The fish…” I pledged to protect him. Not like Daddy, I told him.”
My air went off.
“You mean what?” I asked, trying not to sound panicked.
She stared at me with watery eyes. “Miss Angela said I have big feelings because Daddy left.”
He winced without speaking.
“She said I can talk to animals if needed. She said they’ll comprehend. So I told the fish everything. I know how it feels to be released.”
I felt like weeping on the grass. I had to hold steady.
Behind me, her dad rose and brushed his slacks. I expected she’d release it. Something like closure.”
I replied, “You should’ve told me,” quietly.
Shrugging, he looked embarrassed. Didn’t want to fight.”
After that, we spoke less. After I let her sit by the edge and toss crackers into the water for the fish she believed was there, she calmed down. She murmured to each cracker before throwing.
I wasn’t sure whether I was shocked or sad.
Sleeping in the backseat on the way home. Dirt and goldfish crumbs covered her unicorn shirt. I decided after seeing her in the mirror.
After putting her to bed, I contacted Miss Angela, the school counselor. I requested a meeting.
Three days later, we met in a little office smelling of old markers and jasmine tea. Miss Angela talked softly and had crow’s feet that appeared earned through smiles.
“She’s intuitive,” she observed of my kid. She doesn’t always show her anguish, yet she feels everything. She saw the fish as a little replica of herself.”
“And she thinks we betrayed it,” I added.
Miss Angela nodded. When emotions are overwhelming, kids locate symbols. It wasn’t simply fish. It was her.”
What might I do? My list came from her. Routine, communication, creativity, and desired physical comfort. Most importantly, trust.
I brought my kid to the craft shop later that week to buy paints and a tiny canvas. I said, “Let’s make something just for you.” She painted a rainbow-scaled fish with a crown.
“His name’s Oliver,” she muttered.
Never asked why. Yes, I nodded.
For weeks, everything improved. Nightly nighttime rituals allowed her to chat to her “safe fish”. Her picture inspired a tiny plush doll I purchased. She held it to her heart and said words I couldn’t hear.
Next time her dad picked her up, she clutched to me as he did. “I don’t want to go,” she whimpered.
Down I crouched. “You enjoy Daddy time. What’s wrong?
She glanced down. “I think he’s still letting go of things that want to stay.”
It struck me again—her way of stating she didn’t like uncertainty. That she didn’t want rejection.
I phoned him.
“I think we need a real talk,” I remarked.
He visited overnight. We sat in the kitchen while she sketched in the living room.
He responded, “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” scratching his forehead.
“I know. I don’t believe you appreciate how much she interprets things.”
He nodded slowly. “When I left… I persuaded myself I was shielding her from fights. But I never said goodbye properly. Not to her.”
I regarded him. Actually looked.
Though flawed, he was hardly a villain. Exactly like me.
“You can fix this,” I said.
He took her on a nice trip the next weekend. They didn’t fish. Instead, they visited the aquarium. She returned with a paper crown and Queen Bubbles, a plush dolphin.
“She said she wants to be a marine biologist now,” he chuckled. “She said Queen Bubbles would approve.”
A few weeks later, she shocked me.
We were baking pancakes when she stated, “Mom, I think Oliver forgives Daddy now.”
Turning from the stove. “Yeah?”
She nods. “He said people drop you, but not because you’re bad. Because they can’t hold things yet.”
I left to avoid sobbing into the syrup.
Things softened thereafter.
Her dad and I clicked. We stopped competing and started seeing co-parenting as a learning duet. And she laughed again. Taking over her body.
One day, she brought a permission slip home from school.
“Mom! Class pet vote! Win, receive a fish tank!”
Raised eyebrow. Ready for that?
She nods. “I’ll make them feel safe.”
That weekend, she designed a “Vote for FISH—Friends In Safe Homes!” poster.
Her class won.
She became the unofficial fish whisperer. They dubbed her “The Tank Queen.”
But the twist?
One fish vanished during the year-end celebration. Panic spread. Kids wept. The instructor seemed to be losing it.
My daughter remarked, “Maybe he just needed to explore for a while,” standing on a little chair. Sometimes they return when ready.”
Class became silent. Even the instructor blinked, like she learnt.
She approached the tank, peered, and grinned. “You know?
