I said, ‘Especially then.’
She smiled. Small, but real.
We still have hard days. She hates the smell of peroxide now. She won’t close a bathroom door all the way unless I promise to stay on the other side.
I sit on the floor and talk to her about ordinary things while she washes her hands or brushes her teeth. Grocery lists. Cartoons. The neighbor’s loud dog. Boring things. Safe things.
Little by little, ordinary is becoming ours again.
The case isn’t over. There will be more hearings, more paperwork, more days where I have to explain to strangers why a man who looked helpful was dangerous in private.
I’ll do it every time.
Last week, Lily came out of her room wearing a sleeveless yellow dress she hadn’t touched in months. Her birthmark showed. The healed skin showed too. She stood in front of me with her chin lifted and asked, ‘Do I look okay?’
I told her she looked exactly like herself.
Next month, she starts swim lessons, and this time nobody is teaching her to hide.
