“Agreed,” Karen said. “Neither girl is blameless here. We address all of it.”
“I want to go home,” Greta said suddenly, her voice small and thick. “I don’t care about camp anymore. Mom, please. I just want to go home.”
And God, part of me wanted that too.
“I want to go home,”
I could have scooped her up, driven her home, and ordered pizza. Easy. Safe.
But I knew what it would cost.
She’d lose something she’d wanted for months because other kids had made her afraid of it, and she’d skate right past what she’d done.
Neither of those felt like love.
“Karen,” I said. “What can realistically be done?”
We worked it out in about twenty minutes.
Neither of those felt like love.
The girls wouldn’t share a cabin or activity group.
Staff would know about the conflict. Counselors would watch their interactions. Each family would handle
