When my four-year-old daughter started calling my husband “Sweet Pumpkin,” I thought it was an innocent nickname. But he seemed oddly uncomfortable every time she said it. Then one evening, she mentioned the other women who called him that, too.
Donavan and I had been married seven years. He worked full-time, I handled most of Valerie’s preschool pickups, and our biggest arguments were about bills and missing shoes.
Valerie repeated everything she heard. Once, after Donavan complained that our neighbor was “testing his patience,” she spent a week saying it to her stuffed rabbit.
“Since when are you Sweet Pumpkin?”
So when she asked him for cereal one morning, I laughed.
“Sweet Pumpkin, please?”
Donavan stopped pouring coffee.
“Since when are you Sweet Pumpkin?” I asked.
“That’s Daddy!” Valerie giggled.
When I jokingly offered to use the nickname too, he snapped.
“Probably heard it at preschool,” he said without looking up.
But she kept using it. He corrected her every time.
“Daddy is fine, Val.”
When I jokingly offered to use the nickname too, he snapped, “No.”
Then he shrugged. “It’s embarrassing.”
The following Tuesday, Valerie drew three orange pumpkins at the kitchen table while Donavan showered.
“Mommy, why don’t you call Daddy Sweet Pumpkin like all the other ladies do?”
“Is that our family?” I asked.
“No. The ladies.”
“Which ladies?”
“Mommy, why don’t you call Daddy Sweet Pumpkin like all the other ladies do?”
I put down my marker.
“What other ladies?”
Donavan stood on the last stair, his face pale.
“The nice ones. They bring snacks.”
Footsteps sounded behind us. Donavan stood on the last stair, his face pale.
“Daddy! Mommy wants to know about the pumpkin ladies!” Valerie announced.
“What ladies?” he asked.
“She’s been drawing,” I said.
He praised her pumpkins, then slid the drawing beneath a magazine and asked to see her dinosaur.
That afternoon she returned with a stuffed fox.
I couldn’t shake the look on his face. Valerie had said something silly, but he’d reacted as though she’d revealed a secret. When I tucked her in, she asked for the stuffed rabbit she’d misplaced and forgot all about the drawing. I tried to do the same. Yet when Donavan offered his explanation later, I found myself remembering how quickly he’d hidden those three orange pumpkins.
That night, he said Valerie must mean her preschool teachers. I wanted to believe him.
Saturday was Donavan’s day with Valerie. He took her to the library, playground, or stores while I did chores or visited my mother.
That afternoon she returned with a stuffed fox.
I later found a receipt from a bookstore across town.
“Who bought that?”
“Daddy’s friend.”
“We stopped at the bookstore,” Donavan said. “It was on clearance and a woman wanted to buy it for her.”
I later found a receipt from a bookstore across town. It proved nothing, but I remembered the pumpkin drawing.
The following Wednesday, a woman in a green coat knocked on our door.
“Is Donavan here?”
“Paige. Sorry, I thought he’d be alone.”
“Who’s asking?”
“Paige. Sorry, I thought he’d be alone.”
She glanced at our family photographs.
Before I could ask more, Valerie raced downstairs.
“Paige! You have the green coat!”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears.
Donavan appeared behind us and froze.
“Are you Valerie’s mother?” she asked. “Donavan’s wife?”
I nodded, and she took a step back.
Donavan appeared behind us and froze.
“We need to talk,” Paige said.
“Not here. Leave.”
“She deserves to know.”
When I said I’d call Paige, he begged me not to encourage her.
He hurried Valerie into the living room. Paige wrote her number on a receipt and left.
“Who was that?” I demanded.
“Someone from the library. She misunderstood my being friendly. She’s become obsessed.”
“Valerie knew her name.”
“Children remember people.”
When I said I’d call Paige, he begged me not to encourage her.
“Did he say I’m crazy?”
