Chapter 12
Safety did not arrive overnight.
Lily still woke screaming.
She refused necklaces.
She cried if a dog leash touched the floor near her.
She hid behind me when older women spoke too loudly.
Dr. Marin told me healing would be slow.
“Her body remembers.”
So I taught her body new memories.
Warm baths.
Soft pajamas.
Snacks she could reach.
Doors she could open.
No forced hugs.
No surprise visitors.
Ava moved into the lake house with us for three months.
She said it was to help.
It was also because she did not trust me alone with grief.
Good.
Someone needed to supervise my stubbornness.
I found a job closer to home.
Less money.
More time.
We painted Lily’s room pale yellow.
She chose butterfly curtains.
One night, she asked, “Daddy gone?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma gone?”
“Yes.”
“Mommy stay?”
I climbed into bed beside her.
“Mommy stays.”
She touched her neck.
“No chain?”
I kissed her forehead.
“Never again.”
May you like
She slept with her hand in mine.
I stayed awake for hours, listening to the lake, thanking my father for building walls Ryan never got to own.
