Prompt: Harvey's conflicting feelings re: his mother, plus how death and forgiveness don't erase trauma — requested by Heather (kalingswifts)

Thank you to Heather for beta-ing her own request per topic of our many conversations, as well as Sam, Liz, and Marie for reassuring that I wouldn't face fandom's wrath for this.

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the chains that bind you

It isn't something that he dwells on often, really. Not anymore. But it sneaks up on him in the quiet moments like this with a four year old curled up in his arms, her head on his chest with tired eyes and tear stained cheeks nestled into his shirt. Whether she's climbing in bed with them after a nightmare, jumping into his arms from the highest point of the playground, or clinging to Donna when the day hasn't gone her way, their girl trusts them so implicitly with everything that she is. She wears her little heart and soul on her sleeve just for Mommy and Daddy to see and Harvey can't even begin to understand how any parent could take that for granted. Not just her childhood innocence, but her vulnerability as well.

Today had been one of those days. The four year old check-up and a new round of vaccinations made for an eventful afternoon; their girl's brave face falling the second the pediatrician muttered the word "shots". The "protective dad" instinct had taken over as soon as the tears began to fall and he scooped her up while Donna tried to reassure her (both of them), but in the end, a The Little Mermaid bandage hadn't been enough to keep the four year old happy. She glued herself to Donna's side for the rest of the doctor's visit and hadn't left Harvey's arms since they got home.

Now, he sits on the couch with their daughter held tight against him and brushes the reddening strawberry blonde hair away from her cheeks, allowing himself to dwell in uncertainties. To think back to his own childhood, and acknowledge that even with all the love that his mother had for him, there was one thing about her that even forgiveness couldn't help him understand.

It took becoming a parent to really, truly understand why it had always bothered him so much and why it still nags at him, but looking into his little girl's eyes — eyes that Donna insists are identical to his — he can't fathom how his mother damaged his trust the way that she had. He looks at his own daughter who he loves beyond reason and thinks of himself at four or eight or twelve years old and can't help but wonder how she did it. How she could do it.

It's unsettling.

His mother loved him. He knows that, and he knows that the world is far beyond black and white. People make mistakes. But a piece of him that lived that mistake lives on, so deeply ingrained for so long that it may never heal entirely. Harvey knows that that dysfunction isn't genetic, but Marcus did it, too, so maybe… no. The tiny hand clutching his shirt remains a stabilizing reminder of the most precious thing he has ever had the privilege of taking part in. Being anything but this for her is out of the question.

And yes, sometimes it is difficult to accept that he may never be unburdened from the secret that he carried for his mother for so long, despite it having not been a secret for decades. It still bothers him, maybe even more now that he has a child of his own with the woman who loved him through all of his baggage and broken pieces but Harvey won't allow those repercussions to burden them, too.

Not any more than they already have Donna, at least.

"How is she?" her voice interrupts his thoughts. Donna sits down on the edge of the coffee table across from them, leaning forward as her index finger trails between the four year old's eyebrows down to the tip of her small nose. It's a gesture that she's been doing since their little girl was a newborn — something that she believes soothes her. Harvey agrees.

"She's been out for about ten minutes," he chuckles, glancing down at the sleeping form against him.

"And how is her daddy?"

"What?"

Shaking her head, Donna smiles softly, "You think it isn't obvious but it is. You tense up just as much as this one does at those appointments. You always have."

"I don't like seeing her scared like that."

"I know. There's something else though, isn't there? What's got you so distracted?"

He mulls over the answer for a minute, trying to form his admission the best that he can. "I don't know how she did it."

"She's four. It won't even phase her the second that band-aid is gone," Donna replies lightly but the way that she looks at him says differently. She knows that this isn't what Harvey is trying to tell her but it isn't the time to read him either.

"My mom. I look at our kid and I don't know how my mom ever did what she did. Not just the cheating but what she did to me. Even though I forgave her, it still gets to me more than it should."

Taking Harvey's hand, she lets herself find the truth in his eyes — the pain that lingers, the questions, and every doubt that she knows surfaced once he became a father. He has moments of reflection like this every once in a while and they both know that this won't be the last, but Donna will be damned if she can't talk him through all of them. "Harvey, you forgave her and let her back in so that neither of you had to suffer any longer. No one expects you to be over it, though. It's something that's going to stay with you and just because you aren't angry anymore doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. I know that you love your mom and she knew that too, but I don't think she expected you to act like nothing ever happened. I don't."

She's right. Of course, Donna is right. Forgiveness isn't a magic cure or the end all, be all of trauma. He let it stop getting in the way of him living his life but whether or not he forgave Lily, there would always be a part of Harvey that belongs to that boy, that man, that was broken by things beyond his control. And truthfully, it's a double-edged sword; the fact that Donna knows just as well as he does how childhood can shape a person.

"I'm not mad anymore," Harvey confirms, "I just can't wrap my head around how she could do that. My dad was absent a lot and I can't imagine that either but…"

"She knew you and you trusted her," Donna answers as she looks pointedly at the little girl nestled into her husband, "Like you know her and she trusts you."

"Yeah."

"Harvey, you won't hurt her," she insists, getting to the root of his insecurity.

Harvey sighs, "You don't know that."

"I do know that." Donna's eyes grow soft, her voice stern, and all the faith that she has in him settles into the look on her face. "I know you, too. I know what you've been through and the fact that it bothers you? The fact that you can't understand it? That means that you won't ever hurt our child the way that your mom or your dad hurt you. Parents aren't perfect, Harvey, but I know that you won't abuse her trust, or leave her, or miss the important moments. I have watched you love and protect her unconditionally every day of her life and I know that that is never going to change."

Their daughter lets out a shuttered, post-cry breath then, her eyelids fluttering and her lip quivering. Not only does she look like her mother and sleep like her as well, she has a way of making her presence known by simply being. He loves it. They both do.

Donna repeats the motion from earlier to settle the little girl and whispers up at Harvey, "Look at her. You are one of the safest places in the world for her and I know that you won't take advantage of that. I promise you that I won't either."

"Donna, I know that you won't."

"Okay, then trust me when I tell you that I am absolutely certain that you will never do to me what your mother did to your father, and you will never do to our child what either of them did to you."

"I do," Harvey replies and he means it. He trusts Donna more than he has ever trusted anyone and has since the moment that they met. It's something about her that he never imagined needing in someone until she came into his life.

She smiles, "And I won't do that to your or to her either."

"I know."

"Good."

His insecurities are a part of him, and while healing is a process — one that will likely never be complete — it's hard not to have faith in himself when Donna believes in him as much as she does. The weight of the past doesn't outweigh the weight of her hand in his or the weight on his chest — the baby that they made — and Harvey vows to be better for it. For them, and for himself.

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Thank you for reading! Comments and criticism are always welcome.