Oliver told me that Veronica would likely make her claim in writing, through her own lawyer, and that we would answer it in writing too. He told me not to be frightened by the language she used. Strong language did not make a weak claim strong. What mattered was the truth, and the truth was on our side. The truth was that Poppy was safe with me, that Poppy was loved and cared for, and that Poppy herself had told Dolores she was frightened of Veronica and did not want to see her. A child's own words mattered, Oliver said, even when the child was only six. Especially when the child was only six.
Chapter 22
— The Protective Order
Oliver called me into his office the morning after Veronica's message, and he did not waste time. He said we needed to act before she acted, and the way to act was to ask the court for a protective order for Poppy. He explained it to me in plain words, because he knew I would not sign anything else without understanding it first. A protective order, he said, was a court order that would keep Veronica away from Poppy. It would say she could not come to our house, could not come to Poppy's school, could not contact Poppy by phone or by message or through anyone else. It would put a clear line between my daughter and the woman who had frightened her, and that line would be backed by the court.
I asked him if we had enough reason to ask for one, and he looked at me as if the question surprised him. He said we had more than enough. Poppy had told Dolores, in her own words, what Veronica had said to her the night her curls were cut. She had said she was frightened. She had said she did not want Veronica to come back. A six-year-old girl's fear was not a small thing, Oliver said, and a judge would not treat it as one. Then there was the form, signed in a hospital bed and filed without my knowledge, and the message claiming to be Poppy's de facto mother. Put together, he said, those things showed a pattern. They showed a woman who was willing to use deception to get close to a child, and who would not take no for an answer.
He laid the papers out on his desk, and this time I read every word before I picked up the pen. I read them slowly, twice, and I asked him questions about the parts I did not understand, and he answered each one without impatience. The order would ask the court to protect Poppy until the hearing. It would ask that Veronica have no contact with her at all. It would be based on my statement, and on what Dolores had heard, and on the facts about the form. I would have to swear that what I wrote was true, and I was glad to do that, because every word of it was true.
Signing those papers felt very different from signing the clipboard in the hospital. This time I was awake. This time I was sitting in a chair in daylight, with a lawyer beside me who had explained everything, and with time to read and time to think. This time the pen did not skip. My hand was steady. I signed my name, and then I signed it again on the second page, and I felt something settle in my chest, as if a weight I had been carrying had shifted into a place where I could finally hold it properly.
Oliver told me what would happen next. He would file the papers with the court that same day. A judge would read them and decide whether to grant a temporary order right away, before the full hearing. Veronica would be served with the papers, which meant she would be formally told what the court had ordered and what she could not do. He said she might not like it, and she might try to argue against it, but until a judge said otherwise, the order would stand. That was the point of it. It was not a suggestion. It was the law.
On the drive home, I thought about how strange it was to need a piece of paper to keep someone away from my child. A father ought to be enough. A locked door ought to be enough. But Veronica had already shown that a locked door and a clear instruction were not enough for her, because she had already walked past both of them once, up the stairs to Poppy's room, while I was downstairs with the caterer. So now we needed the court as well, and I was grateful for it, even as I hated that we needed it at all.
When I got home, Dolores was in the garden with Poppy, and Poppy was chasing a butterfly between the flower beds, laughing in a way I had not heard for days. I stood at the back door and watched her for a long time. Her hair was still short, but the sun caught it, and she looked like herself again, like a child who felt safe in her own garden. I went out and sat on the step, and she came and sat beside me, and I told her, in the simplest words I could find, that I had asked some important people to help make sure she would be safe, and that no one she did not want to see would be coming to our house. She nodded, and she leaned against my shoulder, and we sat there together until the butterfly flew away over the fence.