Molly: Thief of Hearts

This week I learned what a thief a child could be. Molly was five years old and I’d been hired to take her home to Denver. She had come to Bristol so a relative could take care of her while her mother recuperated from an appendectomy. The problem was that while Molly was here the relative broke both her legs in a traffic accident. The relative, a distant cousin, was chosen because of her distance. They didn’t want Molly’s father to know where she was for fear that he would violate the order of protection and abduct her. My job was to make sure she got home to her mother. I offered to hold her hand as we walked to my car. She very politely said, “no thank you. “ At the airport I didn’t ask. She didn’t really hold my hand but she let me hold hers. It was limp and it said, I accept this and I won’t fight you. In the air we hit some turbulence and she squeezed my hand. It said, I’m afraid and I have no one else to hang on to. Somewhere over Kansas we both giggled at a Disney movie about flying dinosaurs and she held my hand playfully. It was a great feeling, it said, we are friends. I was sure that the "we are friends" handholding was the best until we arrived at Molly’s mother's house. As we walked up to the front door Molly hesitated. I had no idea how much Molly knew about her mothers’ medical condition or how much time they had had to arrange for her trip to Bristol, but I got the clear impression that Molly didn’t know what to expect inside her house. So I waited until she was ready to proceed. Molly never took her eyes off the door while she slipped her hand into mine. She didn’t hang on like she was frightened, it was tender, like she was saying, I trust you. And right there, right in front of me, and without blinking an eye she stole my heart.