I turn back to Ms. Hancourt. “Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Hancourt. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, and please, call me Denise.”

“I’m Daniel.”

“Principal Craig told me what happened. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“How is Caitlyn doing?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, just so you know how she’s … uh … ‘coping’.” I hate the sound of those words coming out of my mouth.

“It’s all right. You two have been through a horribly traumatic experience.”

Her tone sets me at ease and I realize that she understands more about child psychology than most, quite possibly more than the psychologist I sent Caitlyn to.

“So, how is she ‘coping’?” she asks.

“Caitlyn’s got an active imagination … and sometimes, she uses it a bit too much.”

Denise nods and patiently waits as I struggle to find the right words.

Flustered, I shake my head. “Sorry. This has been rough for us, and I … I guess I wasn’t ready to try to explain what’s going on with her.”

“I would say that I can only imagine what you’re going through, but I can’t.”

Her answer stops me in my tracks. It’s perfect, like she completely understands. Most people say something like, ‘I know what you must be going through,’ and give some advice or insight they have no right in giving, but not her.

“You said she had an active imagination. How so?”

“She makes stuff up about people … and things …” I finally drop my attempt at being delicate. “She lies, sometimes.”

“I understand. Does she believe the stuff that she makes up?”

“No. She knows the difference, but you may have to call her on it.”

“Are you okay with me doing that?” she asks, gently guiding me to tell her what she needs to know.

“Yes. I love her more than anything, but you have a job to do and it’s not fair to the other kids. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you.”

The silence that follows is broken only by the cicadas outside the open windows.

“So,” I finally ask, “is this the weirdest parent-teacher conference you’ve ever had?”

She laughs. “Not even close.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I had a father offer me money to tell everyone in the class that his son was the smartest child I had ever seen. He wanted to boost his self-esteem.”

We both laugh.

“I’m not that crazy,” I assure her, but add, “Close, but not that crazy.”

“And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

I can’t tell you the weight that’s lifting off my shoulders, the ease that she’s putting me into, and I casually ask, “You have kids?”

She grows quiet. “No … It’s, uh, it’s—”