Then I looked at my daughter.
Running.
Laughing.
Living.
There were still things she would carry from what happened.
There were still memories that needed care.
But her story had not ended in that locked building.
It had not ended with the bruises.
Or the hospital.
Or the courtroom.
She had a whole life ahead of her.
And I intended to help her live it.
That evening, after the guests left, Maya climbed beside me on the porch swing.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Do you ever get scared anymore?”
I considered lying.
It would have been easy to say no.
Instead, I answered honestly.
“Sometimes.”
She leaned against me.
“Me too.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Being scared doesn’t mean we can’t be brave.”
She looked up.
“Like when you helped me?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
She thought quietly for a moment.
Then she said, “I knew you’d come.”
The words nearly undid me.
