Chapter 7 - The New Mommy GameThe first time Maisie called Vanessa “Mommy V,” Graham laughed.
Not because it was funny exactly, but because it surprised him and warmed him at the same time. He was standing in the Mercer kitchen, pouring orange juice, when Maisie held up a crooked drawing of three people and said, “This is Daddy, this is me, and this is Mommy V because she has yellow hair.”
Vanessa, who had been pretending to check messages near the window, froze with theatrical modesty.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Maisie, you don’t have to call me that.”
Maisie looked confused. “You said some kids have bonus mommies.”
Graham turned.
Vanessa’s face showed mild embarrassment, nothing more. “We read a book about blended families. It used that phrase.”
Graham looked at the drawing.
Naomi was not in it.
The absence bothered him, but not enough.
He told himself children drew whoever was in front of them. He told himself Maisie was adjusting. He told himself this was healthy.
Vanessa told herself it was progress.
The book had been carefully chosen. A glossy picture book about stepfamilies with smiling children and two houses and language soft enough to pass any adult inspection. Vanessa had read it to Maisie three times, pausing on the pages where the stepmother tucked the child into bed.
“See?” she had said. “Families can grow.”
Maisie had asked, “Does Mommy shrink?”
Vanessa had smiled sadly. “Only if Mommy chooses to stay angry.”
Maisie did not understand the sentence.
But she remembered how it felt.
That was enough.
Naomi discovered “Mommy V” during bath time.
Maisie lined plastic dolphins along the tub and assigned names.
“This one is Mommy. This one is Daddy. This one is me. This one is Mommy V.”
Naomi went very still.
“Who is Mommy V?”
“Vanessa.”
Naomi rinsed shampoo from Maisie’s hair with hands that did not shake only because she forced them not to.
“Did Vanessa ask you to call her that?”
Maisie frowned. “She said I don’t have to.”
That was not an answer.
Naomi sent Graham an email that night.
Maisie referred to Vanessa as “Mommy V.” Please confirm whether Vanessa is encouraging parental titles. This is confusing and inappropriate.
Graham replied the next morning.
Vanessa did not encourage it. Maisie chose it after they read a blended family book. I don’t think policing her language helps.
Naomi printed the email and added it to the binder.
Then she called Rebecca.
Rebecca’s voice sharpened. “We need a child therapist involved. Neutral. Court-recognized.”
“Graham will say I’m overreacting.”
“Let him say it in writing.”
So Naomi requested a co-parenting meeting with a child psychologist named Dr. Helen Marsh.
Graham resisted until Eleanor intervened.
“Graham,” his mother said during Sunday lunch, “if Maisie is struggling, professional guidance is wise.”
Vanessa looked down at her salad.
Eleanor noticed. “You agree, I assume?”
Vanessa lifted her eyes. “Of course. Anything for Maisie.”
But inside, annoyance sparked.
Therapists were dangerous.
Not because they always saw the truth, but because they asked children questions adults could not control.
The first session was scheduled for the following Tuesday. Naomi and Graham attended together. Vanessa was not invited.
That alone enraged her.
She sat in the Mercer driveway after Graham left, gripping the steering wheel.
Not invited.
Naomi still had rooms Vanessa could not enter. Mother rooms. Legal rooms. Medical rooms. Places where people asked Vanessa to wait outside like she was decorative.
By the time Graham returned, Vanessa had prepared her face.
“How did it go?” she asked.
He loosened his tie. “Fine.”
“What did Dr. Marsh say?”
“That Maisie is showing signs of loyalty conflict.”
Vanessa nodded slowly. “That sounds right.”
“She also said we need to avoid introducing parental titles.”
Vanessa’s stomach tightened.
“Did she blame me?”
“No.”
“Did Naomi?”
Graham hesitated.
Vanessa gave a small laugh. “Of course.”
“She’s worried.”
“She’s always worried when Maisie gets closer to you.”
Graham set his keys on the table. “Vanessa.”
“No, Graham. I am trying. I apologized. I welcomed Maisie. I made her a room. I read her books. I cook pancakes. I do everything gently, and every time that child smiles near me, Naomi turns it into evidence.”
Graham looked tired.
That was good.
Tired men wanted the argument to end.
Vanessa lowered her voice. “Maybe Dr. Marsh should see what Naomi is like when she’s not performing for professionals.”
The next stage required risk.
Not too much. Just enough.
Vanessa waited until the following overnight. Graham had a late meeting in the city. Maisie was at the estate with Vanessa, Eleanor, and the staff.
At 7:40 p.m., Vanessa sat on the floor of Maisie’s room with a pink plastic phone.
“Let’s play the New Mommy Game,” she said.
Maisie looked up from her puzzle. “What’s that?”
Vanessa smiled. “Pretend. I say something a nice mommy says, and you say it back.”
“Why?”
“For acting. Like school plays.”
Maisie loved school plays.
Vanessa held the toy phone to her ear. “Hello, Maisie. I’m so sorry I forgot your lunch again.”
Maisie frowned. “Mommy doesn’t forget my lunch.”
“It’s pretend, silly.” Vanessa laughed lightly. “Your turn.”
Maisie hesitated.
Vanessa’s smile thinned.
“Go on.”
Maisie took the phone. “Hello. I’m sorry I forgot your lunch.”
“Good.” Vanessa leaned closer. “Now say, ‘Mommy was sleeping and didn’t take me to school.’”
Maisie lowered the phone. “But Mommy takes me.”
Vanessa’s voice stayed sweet. “Maisie, it’s just pretend.”
“I don’t like that game.”
For one second, Vanessa’s expression changed.
Maisie saw it.
Not anger exactly.
Something colder.
Vanessa reached out and touched Button’s ear. “Big girls know how to play nicely.”
Maisie pulled the rabbit back.
At the doorway, someone moved.
Vanessa turned sharply.
Lydia, the Mercer housekeeper, stood holding a stack of towels.
Her face was unreadable.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mercer,” Lydia said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Vanessa stood. “Then don’t.”
Lydia’s eyes flicked to Maisie.
The child was clutching Button too tightly.
“I’ll leave these in the bathroom,” Lydia said.
Vanessa watched her go.
That night, Lydia did something she had not done in fourteen years of working for the Mercer family.
She wrote down what she had seen.
May you like
Not because she wanted trouble.
Because the little girl’s face would not leave her alone.
