Our first family outing since the divorce: she wore a teal tutu and unicorn sweater, beaming as her dad helped her reel in a fish. Then he gently released it—and she broke down.
Screaming. Crying. “I told him I’d protect it!”
Later, she whispered to me, “I told the fish everything… not like Daddy. I said I’d keep him safe.”
Turns out, her school counselor had told her it was okay to talk to animals. That fish wasn’t just a fish—it was her.
I called the counselor. She said, “Your daughter’s feeling what she can’t say. That release felt like betrayal.”
So we painted. She made a rainbow fish named Oliver. I got her a plush version. She talked to it every night.
One morning, she said, “Oliver forgives Daddy. People drop you… not because you’re bad, but because they can’t hold things yet.”
Things got better. We stopped competing. She laughed again.
Then came a class pet vote. She made a poster: “FISH—Friends In Safe Homes.” Her class won. She became “The Tank Queen.”
At year’s end, one fish went missing. Kids panicked.
She stood up and said, “Maybe he just needed to explore. Sometimes they come back.”
Even the teacher paused.
She looked into the tank and smiled. “You know?”