Chapter 2 - THE CURLS ALISON LOVED
Alison’s hair had never been important because it was beautiful.
That was what Megan would later have to explain repeatedly to people who kept turning the story into something easier.
“Kids get bad haircuts.”
“It grows back.”
“At least she wasn’t seriously hurt.”
Every sentence missed the point.
Alison’s curls mattered because they belonged to Alison.
Since toddlerhood, she had twisted one strand around her finger when nervous.
She asked Megan to braid it loosely before preschool because tight ponytails hurt her scalp.
She hated strangers touching it.
Even hairdressers needed to explain every movement before scissors came close.
At four, Alison told Megan she wanted “princess hair until I’m old like Grandma.”
Megan laughed.
Her mother was fifty-eight.
Alison considered that ancient.
When Megan and Eric divorced, hair became one of the small routines that moved intact between two homes.
Sunday wash night at Megan’s.
Detangling spray in both bathrooms.
The same wide-tooth comb.
No dramatic custody battles over appearance.
At least not initially.
Megan and Eric’s marriage had ended without a villain.
That had been painful in its own way.
They married at twenty-six after dating since college. Alison came five years later, after two miscarriages and more strain than either admitted.
By the time Alison was two, Megan and Eric had become functional roommates who loved their daughter more consistently than they loved each other.
Eric traveled frequently for a regional construction-materials company.
Megan worked as an elementary-school librarian.
They fought about absence.
Then money.
Then whether fighting was still worth the energy.
At thirty, they separated.
At thirty-one, divorced.
Shared legal custody.
Alternating weekends.
Two weekday overnights with Eric.
No dramatic support dispute.
Then Eric met Janice.
Janice Holloway was thirty-six when Megan first met her.
Tall.
Blond.
Elegant.
Warm in a way that initially seemed almost aggressively competent.
She worked as a senior stylist and co-owner of a boutique salon called Bell & Bloom in Naperville.
She remembered Alison’s favorite snack after meeting her once.
Bought the right toothpaste.
Sent Megan pictures during Eric’s weekends without being asked.
For almost a year, Megan thought she had gotten lucky.
A stepmother who wanted to cooperate.
Then the boundaries began moving.
Slowly.
Janice bought Alison outfits and sent back the clothes Megan packed because they looked “cheap.”
She straightened Alison’s curls for family photos without asking.
Once she posted a picture online captioned:
My little mini-me.
Megan called Eric.
“She’s not her mini-anything. Tell Janice not to post her publicly without checking with us.”
Eric sighed.
“She’s excited.”
“That doesn’t override Alison’s privacy.”
“You always assume the worst.”
“No. I assume I’m her mother.”
The post disappeared.
Janice did not apologize.
After that, warmth became something more conditional.
Megan was “controlling.”
“Miserable since the divorce.”
“Jealous that Alison had another maternal figure.”
Eric repeated some of that language once during an argument.
He apologized later.
But Megan remembered where he heard it.
Then Eric’s work travel increased.
He was assigned temporarily to oversee a warehouse conversion project in Indianapolis, often gone Monday through Thursday.
During his custody days, Alison increasingly stayed with Janice alone.
Megan objected.
Eric insisted Janice was legally his spouse and perfectly capable.
Technically, he was right.
Emotionally, Megan hated it.
But hating a custody arrangement did not make it unlawful.
So she documented.
Asked Alison open questions.
Never coached.
Never called Janice names around her.
For almost six months, Alison reported ordinary things.
Pancakes.
Cartoons.
Trips to the salon.
Janice doing clients’ hair after closing.
Then, about three weeks before the porch confrontation, Alison began asking something strange.
“Mommy, does hair grow if somebody needs it?”
Megan laughed at first.
“What do you mean?”
“If I give mine away.”
“Hair grows back, yes.”
“All of it?”
“Eventually.”
Alison looked relieved.
Megan should have asked more.
May you like
She didn’t.
That failure would bother her for years.
