“In itself, the fact that I thought it was cool to have sex before I was even a teenager should have sent up some red flags,” I remembered writing, and I thought, what basis could a third-grader have to be thinking about people kissing each other’s privates?

Perhaps she walked in on someone in an intimate moment. Maybe she overheard a conversation or accidentally came across some adult content on television or the internet. It could be that she and her family have already discussed the logistics and mechanics of sex.

All of these are plausible explanations. I desperately hope one of them is true. But my consideration of the situation couldn’t stop there.

Because another possibility is that Lizzie had been subject to sexual abuse. And ignoring that possibility would be failing this little girl in the very same way I was failed so many times.

Reporting suspected child abuse isn’t easy.

A small voice in my head asked, “But what if it’s nothing? What if you’re blowing it out of proportion?”

To which a louder voice responded, “But what if it’s true?”

I knew what I needed to do. I felt confident I was making the right choice in doing it. But it made me sick to my stomach to think about reporting this concern of mine.

I also didn’t know exactly to whom I should report it.

I knew Lizzie’s mother. She had expressed interest in having a friendship with me, though the idea made me uneasy. During our very first conversation she shared far too much personal information with me, leading me to wonder about her ability to establish boundaries, and talking to her brought back uncomfortable memories of my own troubled past.

I didn’t want to call and tell her the secondhand story my daughter had told me, particularly given the fact that I’ve seen Lizzie lie directly to her mother, convincing her “someone got into my head” and forced her to say awful things to my daughter.

I could call Nina’s mother and alert her to the conversation, but that felt like telling tales out of school — especially if Nina hadn’t yet heard the story. It had the potential to create a lot of adult drama, and I wasn’t ready to go that route until I had more information.

I could file an anonymous report with the state agency in charge of investigating child welfare. Without knowing Lizzie’s last name or address, though, I didn’t know what would come of it.

In the end, I decided to call the school counsellor, who knows all the girls involved and who has far more context than anyone else about not only the girls’ individual stories but also the dynamics at play in the friendships between them. She is also a mandated reporter, so if she determined there was a present situation going on that needed attention from the state, she could file the anonymous report on my behalf.

I felt legitimate relief after that conversation. I had taken my own advice and spoken up for a child who I suspected might be going through something no child should ever have to endure.

I did what I’ve wished so many times someone had done for me.

Follow-up is key.

Now that I had advocated on Lizzie’s behalf I could have dusted off my hands, patted myself on the back, and moved on. And boy, did I want to. I was eight months pregnant, physically exhausted, and emotionally drained not only from reliving my own trauma but also from lying awake all night, worrying about Lizzie’s situation.

But in all this time working through my own trauma, I had realised I couldn’t put my own comfort over my daughter’s need for processing and closure.

When she got home from school that day, I asked if we could talk. “Sure…” she said with more than a little suspicion in her eyes.

We snuggled up in my bed, a sanctified space where we both feel safe and protected.

“I want you to know how proud and happy I am that you felt comfortable telling me about the situation between Lizzie and Nina,” I said.

She smiled wide and hugged me tight.

“How did you feel when Lizzie started talking about that stuff?” I asked.

“I felt really scared and uncomfortable!” she said.

I’d thought maybe I would explain sexual abuse to her, but in the moment it seemed like too much information for the situation at hand. Instead, I said, “I want to tell you one more time how glad I am that you came to me when you felt uncomfortable. Any time you’re feeling that way, it’s a signal you need to get an adult involved. Because there may be things going on that you don’t understand that an adult might be concerned about.”

We went on to talk about strategies she could use if she got uncomfortable during the sleepover, or any other time, and in the end, she was happy and settled.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said when we were finished with our conversation. “I trust you even more now.” She gave me one last hug on her way out the door, and finally, I felt settled as well.

I felt like crying. Crying for Lizzie, crying for the little girl I used to be, crying for the opportunity to do better for my children than my caregivers did for me.

Decision points.

As a parent, we experience dozens of decision points every day.

Should the kids have cookies as a snack or fruit? Should they be allowed to have device time before homework? Should we stay home or go to the trampoline park? Should I wash the stainless steel water bottle or just send them to school with a plastic bottle? Is this just kids telling stories, or is it a sign of something deeper?

Some decisions are more consequential than others. Even the minor ones, though, can pile up over time and form a schema for the way we cope with decisions, a model our kids follow as they learn to move through the world.

When we decide to make space for discussion and connection even when we’d rather plaster a smile on our face and move on, we show our children even their smallest worries matter.

And that’s how they learn where they can turn when the worries get big.