The place I want to talk about first, if you're open to it, is the crisis cluster — Chapters 7, 8, and 9. Three consecutive chapters at peak emotional intensity, no relief between them. A reader will feel it. Want to look at that together?
You're writing the child narrator, but twice in this chapter the adult Shara surfaces to explain what the child is feeling. Pages 4 and 7. The child doesn't need to explain herself — her actions do that. When you add the adult's interpretation, you collapse the dramatic irony that makes your child narrator so powerful.
Delete those two explanatory paragraphs. Don't replace them. The scene holds without them — and it holds harder.
Here's what I'd suggest: read Ch. 8 and flag every sentence where the child narrator tells the reader what something means. Those are the cuts. Everything that shows is already working. You have more than enough.
I am thirty-eight years old and I still flinch when I hear a bathroom door close too hard. I still count tiles when I am anxious. I still hold my breath at the top of a staircase without knowing why.
The body keeps its own archive. It files away things the mind has long since agreed to forget.
I have been in therapy for nine years and I understand the mechanics of what happened to me with clinical precision. I can name the attachment patterns. I can diagnose the trauma responses. I can describe, in the correct vocabulary, the shape of a child’s nervous system organizing itself around a parent’s crisis. And none of that understanding touches the place where the eleven-year-old still lives.
Understanding is not the same as healing. They rhyme. They are not synonyms.