The Choice

she told me was conĕdential—unless her life was in danger. And then
I made a so, open-ended invitation. “You know, your parents are so
worried about you. I’m interested to know the real story. Is there
anything you’d like to tell me?”
Emma didn’t respond. She stared at the carpet, tugging her sleeves
even farther over her hands.
“It’s okay to be silent,” I said.
More silence stretched between us. I waited. I waited some more.
“You know,” I said aer a while, “it’s ĕne for you to take as long as
you need. I have a little paperwork I need to do. I’m going to go work
in the other room. When you’re ready, let me know.”
She eyed me suspiciously. In a home with punitive discipline,
children grow accustomed to hearing threats, and these threats can
escalate quickly or, at the other extreme, prove empty. Although I was
speaking kindly, she was looking to see if my words and tone were
going to escalate into an angry criticism or admonition, or if I wasn’t
really going to leave the room, if I was just a pushover.
I think she was surprised when I simply stood up, crossed the room,
and opened the door. Only then, my hand on the doorknob, did she
speak.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“ank you,” I said, returning to my chair. “I’m happy to hear that.
We have forty minutes le. Let’s use them well. Is it okay if I ask you a
couple questions?”
She shrugged.
“Tell me about a typical day. What time do you wake up?”
She rolled her eyes, but she answered my question. I continued in
this vein. Did she have a clock radio, or an alarm clock, or did her
mother or father come to wake her up? Did she like to lie in bed for a
while under the covers, or did she jump right out of bed? I asked her
mundane questions, getting a sense of her daily life—but none of my