Chapter 8
I brought Lily home to my little house, not Richard’s estate.
She cried when she saw the porch.
Not because it scared her.
Because it didn’t.
“It’s small,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I laughed softly and then hated myself for laughing when she looked so fragile.
But Lily smiled a little.
“It smells like coffee.”
“And lemon cleaner.”
“And your old books.”
I had not realized she remembered.
Her childhood room was still upstairs.
I had never changed it.
Richard told me once it was unhealthy.
I had almost listened.
Thank God I had not.
Lily stood in the doorway.
The blue curtains were faded.
Her stuffed horse still sat on the pillow.
The wall still held glow-in-the-dark stars I put up crookedly when she was twelve.
She touched one.
“I thought you packed all this away.”
“No.”
“Richard said you did.”
I swallowed.
“He lied.”
She looked around.
“I missed me.”
That broke my heart in a new place.
I stood in the hall, giving her space.
She sat on the bed carefully, one hand over her ribs.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can I stay here even if I cry too much?”
“You can stay here if you cry every hour.”
“What if I scream?”
“Then I’ll make tea.”
“What if I don’t talk?”
“Then I’ll sit nearby.”
“What if I hate myself?”
I closed my eyes.
“Then I’ll love you enough for both of us until you remember how.”
Her face crumpled.
I held her while she cried.
That night, I slept in the hallway outside her door because she asked me to.
At 3:17 a.m., she woke screaming.
I was there before the second scream.
She grabbed my shirt.
“He was in the room.”
“No. Just me.”
“Chair.”
I put the chair under the handle.
“Window.”
I checked the lock.
“Phone.”
I placed it in her hand.
Only then did she breathe.
Healing, I realized, would not be heroic.
May you like
It would be repetitive.
And I would repeat safety as many times as she needed.
