Those words froze me.
Her little fingers dug into the patches on my vest like she was trying to anchor herself to the ground.
And then I heard it.
A voice in the distance. A man’s footsteps—heavy, angry, purposeful—coming closer. Fast. His voice tore through the aisle.
“ADDISON!”
She flinched so hard she nearly pulled my vest off my shoulders.
A Child’s Fear You Can Feel Through Your Bones
I knelt down slowly so I could look her in the eyes, making myself smaller, less intimidating, more human. “You okay, sweetheart?” I asked quietly.
She shook her head. Her whole body shook with it.
Before she spoke, the man rounded the corner—red-faced, breathing hard, moving like a storm about to break. He froze when he saw me kneeling beside her. His eyes flicked from her hand gripping my vest to my face—my tattoos, my boots, my size.
I could feel Addison’s fear pulsing through her tiny hands. She pressed herself against me like she was trying to disappear behind my vest.
“Is this your dad?” he demanded.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just held tighter.
I stood up slowly, placing myself fully between the man and the child. Not saying a word. Not raising my voice. Just standing there.
Sometimes silence is the loudest warning.
