Chapter 6: The Notebook Beneath My Mattress
My father didn't drive to the house immediately.
He sat in the parking space with the engine running, staring at Monique's message while sunlight moved across the windshield.
I watched him from the passenger seat.
“Daddy?””
He turned the phone facedown.
“I'm here, sweetheart.””
“Are you mad at me?””
His head snapped toward me.
“No. Why would you think that?””
I looked at my hands.
“Because of the picture.””
He exhaled slowly, then unbuckled his seat belt and turned toward me.
“Aaliyah, listen to me. Someone sending me a picture of your bedroom doesn't mean you've done something wrong.””
“But she found my notebook.””
“What did you write in it?””
I hesitated.
“Things.””
“What kind of things?””
I rubbed my palms against my lavender T-shirt.
“When I was hungry. When she said I couldn't have food. Sometimes when she said you didn't want me.””
My father's face changed so quickly that I almost looked away.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, they were wet.
“Baby,” he whispered, “you wrote those things down because you needed someone to hear you.””
I nodded.
“I didn't want to forget.””
He reached across the console and held my hand.
“You shouldn't have had to keep a notebook to prove how you were being treated.””
I began to cry again.
“I didn't want you to think I was lying.””
Dad leaned over and hugged me.
“I should have listened sooner.””
I shook my head against his shoulder.
“You were working.””
“That doesn't mean I should have missed what was happening.””
He held me for a while, then sat back and wiped his face.
“We're going to handle this carefully. We won't go into the house alone, and we won't let anyone frighten you into saying something that isn't true.””
I nodded.
Dad called the attorney again.
This time, he explained the message and the photograph. He listened closely, asking questions and writing down the answers on a notepad.
When he finished, he turned toward me.
“We can arrange to collect your belongings with someone else present. You don't have to go inside if you don't want to.””
I looked at the window.
“My room is upstairs.””
“I know.””
“My notebook is under the mattress.””
“I know, sweetheart.””
“What if she throws it away?””
Dad's expression became serious.
“Then we'll document what happened and tell the people helping us. But you don't have to put yourself in a frightening situation to save it.””
I thought about the notebook.
Its cover was pink, with a little silver star in the corner. I had received it for my birthday, before Monique began telling me that I was old enough to stop expecting special treatment.
At first, I used it to write about school.
Then I started recording the days when I felt hungry.
I wrote short sentences because I didn't want to waste pages.
Monday. No snack.
Tuesday. Rice only.
Wednesday. Asked for an apple. She said no.
Sometimes, I drew little pictures of food beside the words.
A sandwich.
A bowl of soup.
A plate of chicken.
It was childish, but drawing the food made me feel as though I had eaten something.
“I want it,” I whispered.
Dad nodded.
“Then we'll do our best to get it safely.””
He called the attorney one more time and arranged for a supervised visit to collect my belongings. Afterward, we drove to the guest suite, where Dad set up a small bed for me and placed my new lunchbox on the kitchen counter.
He made me a bowl of cereal.
I ate it at the little table while he sat across from me, checking emails and making calls.
Every few minutes, he looked up to make sure I was all right.
Eventually, I put down my spoon.
“Daddy?””
“Yes?””
“Can I ask you something?””
“Anything.””
“Did you know Monique didn't like me?””
His fingers stopped above the keyboard.
He closed the laptop.
“I knew she sometimes got frustrated,” he said carefully.
“But I didn't understand how bad things had become.””
“Why didn't you see?””
He looked down at his hands.
“Because I wasn't paying enough attention. I believed that if you weren't complaining, everything was fine. That was wrong.””
I studied his face.
“Are you going to stop working so much?””
He gave a small, pained smile.
“I'm going to make changes. I can't promise I'll never have to work late, but I can promise that your care won't be left to someone without making sure you're safe.””
I considered that.
Then I pushed my bowl toward him.
“Can I have more cereal?””
He stood immediately.
“Absolutely.””
The next afternoon, we returned to the house with the attorney's representative and a local officer who accompanied us while we collected essential belongings.
I stayed beside Dad in the hallway.
The house looked exactly as it always had. The cream walls. The polished staircase. The family photographs arranged along the landing.
But it no longer felt like home.
Monique stood near the living room in brown trousers and her floral bow-neck blouse. Her long black waves fell over one shoulder, and her designer handbag rested on the sofa.
She looked at me.
“So,” she said, “you've brought an audience.””
Dad stepped forward.
“We're here to collect Aaliyah's belongings.””
Monique gave a brittle laugh.
“Of course you are. You believe every story she tells you.””
The officer remained near the entrance.
“Ma'am, we're here to keep this peaceful. Please allow them to collect the child's things.””
Monique folded her arms.
“Fine. Go upstairs. Take whatever you want.””
Dad took my hand.
“Let's get your pajamas and your school things.””
We climbed the stairs together.
When I entered my bedroom, I stopped in the doorway.
My bed had been stripped.
The mattress lay at an angle, and my drawers were open. A stack of shirts had been tossed onto the floor. My stuffed rabbit sat near the closet, one ear bent beneath a shoe.
I hurried toward it.
Dad picked up the rabbit and brushed it off.
“Here you go, sweetheart.””
I hugged it to my chest.
Then I saw the notebook.
It lay open on the bed.
Several pages had been torn out.
I walked toward it slowly.
On the last remaining page, Monique had written something in thick black ink.
Lying has consequences.
My hands began to shake.
Dad took the notebook gently.
He read the words.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then he turned toward the doorway.
“Monique!””
His voice carried down the hall.
She appeared almost immediately, as though she had been waiting for him to discover it.
“What?””
“Did you write this?””
She glanced at the notebook.
“I was trying to teach her that writing lies doesn't make them true.””
Dad's face hardened.
“These are her personal notes about being hungry.””
“She writes whatever she wants. She has a vivid imagination.””
“You tore out the pages.””
“I was cleaning her room!””
“You left a threat in her notebook.””
Monique stepped closer.
“Don't act as though you're suddenly an expert on parenting. You barely know what happens in your own house.””
Dad stared at her.
“Then explain why my eight-year-old daughter feels she has to document when she's allowed to eat.””
Monique's mouth tightened.
“Because she's manipulative.””
I flinched.
The officer immediately stepped between us.
“Ma'am, you need to give them space.””
Monique backed away, but her eyes remained fixed on me.
“You think he's going to protect you forever?”” she whispered.
Dad moved in front of me.
“That's enough.””
For once, Monique didn't answer.
Dad gathered my clothes, school supplies, and the few toys that remained untouched. I held the notebook against my chest as we carried everything downstairs.
At the front door, Monique suddenly spoke again.
“You should check the last page before you decide who the liar is.””
Dad stopped.
“What are you talking about?””
She lifted her chin.
“The page she tore out herself.””
My stomach dropped.
Because there had been one page I had never shown anyone.
One page where I had written about something I saw Monique do in the kitchen.
Something I hadn't understood at the time.
Something that had frightened me enough to write it down, then hide the page between the mattress and the bed frame.
Dad turned toward me.
“Aaliyah, what page is she talking about?””
I clutched the notebook tighter.
“I don't know.””
Monique smiled without warmth.
“Tell him about the money, sweetheart.””
Dad's eyes narrowed.
“What money?””
Monique reached into her handbag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
She held it up between two fingers.
“Perhaps your daughter should explain why she was hiding cash in her room—and why she wrote down exactly where I kept mine.””
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Because the money hadn't been mine.
And the page Monique was holding was not the page I had written.
It was a page I had never seen before.
And as my father reached for it, Monique added one final sentence.
“Ask her why she was in my bedroom the night your first wife died.””
The entire hallway fell silent.
Dad slowly lowered his hand.
Then he turned to me, his face drained of color.
“Aaliyah,” he whispered, “what does she mean?””
I opened my mouth.
May you like
But before I could answer, Monique pulled a second photograph from her handbag.
And the little girl in that photograph was me.
