I stared at the screen for a long moment before putting my phone away and walking to Lily’s room.
She was sitting on the floor, puzzle pieces scattered everywhere.
She looked up with eyes still too old for her age and asked, “Mom… can we never go back there again?”
I pulled her into my arms.
“We’re done, sweetheart. We’re never going back.”
And the peace that settled in our house that night felt like oxygen after years of holding my breath.
Healing Is Quiet
The following weeks were a shift — not dramatic, not cinematic, but deeply human.
The house felt warmer. Softer. Still.
I started noticing the small things I had forgotten to pay attention to: Lily humming while drawing, the freckles on her nose, the way she ran toward me when school let out.
