November 1990

Three Years Old

"How was preschool, sweetheart?" A beautiful woman with warm eyes and rich chestnut hair by the name of Amelia Ailes asked, glancing at her daughter through the rearview mirror.

"Good!" Three-year-old Rowan looked up from where she played with her teddy bear, strapped snugly into her car seat. "I colored and had a snack and told Miss Taylor the ABCs! But I couldn't remember what came after 'P' so she had to help me."

"Very good, sweetie! Did you play with Owen?"

"Yeah, I let him share my crayons and when we played pretend we got married! And Ben made us say our promises since his daddy is a pastor and then Hannah threw flowers at us!" she said excitedly, blue eyes sparkling.

Rowan's mother smiled too, amused. "That sounds like fun, sweetie. Do you like Owen?"

"He's my bestest friend in the world! But I don't think I'd marry him in real life," she stated factually, wrinkling her nose. "Because Daddy says that Owen has cooties."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that," her mom said, pressing the gas as the light turned green. "Do you want to-"

But Rowan never got to find out what she may want to do. Because a car ran the light and smashed into their minivan, and the world spun into chaos.

February 1991

Three Years Old

"She hasn't said a word since the accident." Curtis Ailes ran a frustrated hand through his hair, eyes trained on Rowan who played silently with a doll.

"She's been through an ordeal. It's common among young children as a way for them to process. It just takes time," Rowan's therapist, Dr. Young, said.

"Yes, but how much time? How long are we talking? Weeks, months, what?"

"It's impossible to say, it varies from child to child. Just give her time, be there for her. It will get easier. She'll start talking again," Dr. Young said. "You just have to be patient with her."

June 1992

Four Years Old

"You said it would take time. You didn't say how much," Curtis Ailes said, clearly irate as he glared at Dr. Young. Rowan was close by, looking at a picture book.

"Yes, but she's progressing. She's began speaking again, simple words and phrases," Dr. Young soothed.

"She's supposed to be starting kindergarten in the fall! It's not enough! Is this even trauma anymore, or is there something else wrong with her?"

"Mr. Ailes, Rowan witnessed her mother bleed out in front of her. She's four years old. You can't possibly expect her to get over such an experience overnight. To tell you the truth, it's fortunate that she likely won't remember it when she's older," the therapist said. "And I'm not sure I can recommend her starting kindergarten yet. She's still having difficulty, and with her being silent for so long her grammar and vocabulary likely won't be up to par with others who are her age."

Rowan's father crossed his arms. "What are you saying?"

"I'm suggesting you hold her back another year. Re-enroll her in preschool. It's a less stressful environment where she'll be able to talk as she likes. I fear that kindergarten would be too much for her in such a fragile state."

"Maybe you're right." Curtis Ailes glanced at his daughter and shook his head despairingly. "I just don't know what to do with her anymore."

Dr. Young sighed, looking at his young patient through compassionate eyes. "She's progressing. I know it's hard. But like I keep saying, you just have to be patient."

November 1992

Five Years Old

"Daddy?" Rowan's voice was quiet and unsure as she tugged at her father's pants.

"Yes, Rowan?" He asked, taking another drink of his beer as he waited for his daughter to speak.

"Why did Mommy leave?" She asked. She was so young, still unsure as to what death meant, only knowing that her mother had left her and would not be coming back.

"We don't talk about Mommy, Rowan. Remember?" he said tightly, hand clenching around his beer bottle.

She looked up at him with innocent, trusting eyes. "But-"

"No buts!" he was suddenly enraged, tipsy and deranged from the agony of losing his wife. "We don't talk about her! Ever!"

Rowan's blue eyes welled with tears. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

He let out a sigh, lifting her into his lap. "I shouldn't have yelled. I just don't like talking about Mommy. It hurts."

"I miss her," Rowan whimpered, clutching his shirt within her small fist.

"I do too, Rowan. I do too."

March 1993

Five Years Old

"What do you mean she disappeared? Kids don't just disappear!" Curtis Ailes snapped, clearly irate.

"We don't know where she went, Mr. Ailes! We know that she's has a bit of a... troubled past, and we're concerned that that may contribute to what's happened."

"Where is my daughter?" he thundered. "Where did you last see her?"

"In the playroom, she was playing with the dollhouse," the teacher stammered, quickly standing and leading him to where she had been. "We look back and she wasn't there, she wasn't anywhere. It's like she just disappeared."

"I found her!" someone yelled, and a couple of moments later Rowan was led in by the hand by one of the teachers. "She was in the snack room, I don't know how she got there. It was like she just showed up out of thin air."

"Rowan," Curtis said, his tone a mixed amount of relief and anger. "Why did you run off?"

"I didn't, Daddy," Rowan said, confused as to why everyone was so concerned. "Billy was being mean and scared me and so I went away and Ms. Nathan didn't say I couldn't go."

"I'm so sorry about this," Curtis said, clearly displeased. "I'll take her home, talk to her. Make sure it doesn't happen again."

"We're so sorry for the scare, Mr. Ailes," said Ms. Nathan.

He gave a slight nod. "I would rather know than not. Get your things, Rowan."

Rowan scampered off, and Curtis tugged her out to the car, perhaps rougher than he needed to be. He didn't speak to her the whole way home, clearly stewing in anger, but he blew up the moment they were in the house.

"That was unacceptable, Rowan!" he shouted, oblivious to how his daughter cowered. He had stopped truly caring many months ago. Rowan was just a reminder of his wife, of how Amelia was gone and yet Rowan remained. He just wanted his wife, and instead he was stuck with a daughter who was behind in school and had just this year began to speak again.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she sniffled.

"Sorry won't cut it! This behavior cannot continue. I have been very patient with you, but this has to stop."

"Daddy-"

"Did I say you could speak?!" he bellowed. Rowan squeaked in fear and stumbled back, crying out as he grabbed her arm in a forceful hold. "Do not run away from me!"

"I'm sorry!" she said, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Her cheek suddenly stung, exploding with pain as her head jerked to the side at the force of his slap. "Shut the hell up and quit crying."

This had an adverse effect, as Rowan was now crying harder than ever, fear and pain in her watery blue eyes. Her cheek was now an inflamed, angry red, and her small hand was pressed against where it still stung.

"Get out of my sight," her father snarled, turning his back to her abruptly and running a hand through his hair.

Rowan, tears still rolling down her face, scampered off, taking refuge in her room and refusing to emerge until the next morning.

November 1993

Six Years Old

Rowan didn't understand why her father hurt her. She was much too young and too small to understand anything past her presence made him angry, and that she should stay as far away from him as possible.

Sometimes he would be nice, like when he quieted her after she would have nightmares of the car crash, which was now nothing more than a dim memory within her young mind.

School was an escape from her home, a place where she had friends and the grown-ups were kind. Her kindergarten teacher's name was Mrs. Hurst, a grandmotherly woman who was calm but firm and able to control her students without resorting to raising her voice.

Rowan approached Mrs. Hurst one day during lunchtime, her side still aching from a kick received the night previous. It was November, and her father's fury burned hotter than ever, even though she didn't understand what she had done to provoke it.

"Mrs. Hurst?" She asked shyly, worrying at the sleeve of her worn sweater.

"Yes, Rowan? Do you need me to open your fruit cup again?" her teacher asked kindly.

Rowan shook her head several times. "No, um, my daddy is mean to me and my side hurts."

Mrs. Hurst straightened, looking startled, and beckoned Rowan to her. "Can I see, Rowan?"

"Yes," Rowan said quietly, pulling up her shirt a little to display the brilliant purple bruise that adorned her side.

"Come with me," Mrs. Hurst said, taking Rowan's hand and guiding her out of the room. She left the assistant teacher in charge while she lead Rowan to the principle, who listened with a polite smile that wasn't quite believing before calling in her father.

"Mr. Ailes, we've heard a concerning report from your daughter. She said you hurt her?" Principle Barrow asked once Curtis Ailes arrived at the school.

"Hurt her? I love my daughter, I would never lay a finger on her," Rowan's father said, looking offended at the suggestion. He heaved a heavy sigh. "This isn't the first time she's acted out like this."

"How did she get that bruise then, Mr. Ailes?" Mrs. Hurst asked, glancing at Rowan who stared nervously up at her father.

"She was playing on the swing set out back and fell. I had her ice it last night, and I would have given her a Tylenol if I had known it was still bothering her." Curtis Ailes played the perfect part of a concerned parent, reaching out to squeeze Rowan's shoulder in a touch that was gentler than she had felt in months.

"Why would she lie about something like this?" the principle asked.

"Like I said, she's acted out before. The anniversary of her mother's death is coming up, and that's not easy for either of us, but Rowan was there when she passed," Curtis said sadly.

Principle Barrow and Mrs. Hurst seemed to accept this, and the principle spoke. "We're glad to have this cleared up, then. We'll see that Rowan is disciplined accordingly for lying."

"Please, I'll talk to her when we get home. It is her first offense," Her father said.

"Alright," Mrs. Hurst said. "I think we can let it go just this once. C'mon Rowan, we have to go back to the classroom. Have a good day, Mr. Ailes."

"You too," He said with a smile, his glittering blue eyes following Rowan as they left the room.

Rowan received her worst-ever punishment that night. She was refused meals besides lunch for school for the next three days, and her back remained an angry, stinging red from her father's belt for a long time.

She learned, after that day, that no grown-ups could save her. They simply didn't care.

Edited 4/16/2021