Part One:
The courtroom was colder than I expected. Not just in temperature—though the air conditioning blasted with a vengeance—but in atmosphere. A space meant for justice somehow felt like the loneliest place I’d ever been. I sat there, my palms flat against the polished oak table, staring at the neat stack of papers in front of me. Documents, affidavits, statements—all the proof I thought might help me keep my little girl. But none of it seemed enough.
My lawyer, a wiry man named Franklin Myers, leaned close. His voice was calm, but I could hear the strain beneath it.
“Sarah,” he murmured, “we need to stay composed. If you react, even a little too strongly, it plays into their narrative. You understand?”
I nodded, though my throat felt too tight to speak. I understood perfectly. My ex-husband’s attorney had spent weeks painting me as unstable, emotional, too soft for the “discipline” a child needed. Every tear I shed was proof for them. Every nervous laugh, every restless glance.
And across the room sat Daniel.
Daniel, with his tailored navy suit and his polished shoes, looking like the picture-perfect father. His hair neatly trimmed, his tie an elegant shade of gray. He was the type of man people trusted on sight, the kind who charmed waiters and neighbors, the kind who smiled with just enough sincerity to hide the poison underneath.
He caught me looking at him and smirked. That smirk had been haunting me for years, the one that said, You’ll never beat me. I always win.
I dropped my gaze to the table. My heart was pounding too loud, my fingers trembling as they brushed against my purse. Inside, tucked safely into a pocket, was Lily’s drawing. My 8-year-old’s crayon sketch of our family—me, her, and Daniel. Only, in the far corner, she’d drawn a figure, scribbled all in black, with no face.
I knew what it meant. She hadn’t needed to explain.
The judge entered, and everyone rose. Judge Martin Holt, a man with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel, settled into his seat. His presence was heavy, commanding silence with nothing more than a glance. I clutched the edge of the table tighter. This was it. This was the man who would decide if I got to keep my daughter—or if I’d have to hand her over to the very person she feared most.
The opposing attorney stood first. A tall, polished man with a voice that carried authority, as if every word was fact carved into stone.
“Your Honor,” he began, “we’ve heard countless claims from the mother. Allegations, accusations, emotional stories. But where is the evidence? Where are the police reports? Where are the witnesses? There are none. Because these supposed events never happened.”
He gestured toward Daniel with a smooth wave of his hand.
“My client, Mr. Whitaker, is a respected professional. He provides stability, financial security, and a structured environment. He is ready and willing to give Lily the life she deserves.”
Every word felt like a hammer, pounding against me, walling me away from Lily. My chest constricted. He’s lying. He’s lying and they’re believing him.
I glanced up at the judge. His expression was unreadable as he took notes.
Franklin rose, his voice steady but lacking the same confidence. He argued for me, for Lily, for the truth we’d both lived. But truth without proof was like shouting into the wind.
My mind drifted back to all the nights Lily had crawled into bed with me, whispering, “Mommy, Daddy’s mad again.” All the slammed doors, the raised voice, the way she flinched when he gripped her arm too tightly. The way her rabbit—the little stuffed one she carried everywhere—became her shield against him. How could I explain that in a way the court would understand? How could I show them the fear that lived in her tiny shoulders?
The judge leaned back, steepling his fingers.
“If there are no further statements…”
Panic shot through me like ice. No. Not yet. Please, not yet.
I opened my mouth, desperate for something, anything that could stop this. But the words lodged in my throat, choking me. My eyes burned with tears I couldn’t let fall. If I broke now, I’d prove them right.
And then—
The sound of small footsteps echoed through the courtroom.
My head snapped around. Lily.
My daughter stood at the back of the room, her yellow dress bright against the dark benches, her braids swinging gently as she clutched her stuffed rabbit to her chest.
The whispers began instantly, rippling through the gallery. Daniel’s family turned in their seats, confusion flickering across their faces. Even Daniel himself stiffened, his confident smirk faltering.
“Excuse me, Your Honor.” Lily’s voice was soft, almost too small to carry across the room. But it did. It sliced through the tension like a blade. “Can I say something?”
The entire room froze.
The judge adjusted his glasses, studying her with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
“Lily,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind, “this is unusual. But if you have something you’d like to share, the court will hear you.”
My heart nearly burst. I wanted to run to her, to pull her into my arms, to shield her from the weight of what she was about to do. But she stood tall, her little shoulders squared, her rabbit trembling in her grip.
“Everyone keeps talking about Mommy and Daddy,” she said, her voice trembling but steady enough to be heard. “They keep saying who’s better, who’s worse. But nobody asked me.”
The judge leaned forward. “Go on.”
Her eyes darted toward Daniel, then back to the floor. Her small chest rose and fell with a shaky breath.
“I love my daddy,” she said softly. “But he scares me.”
The gasp that followed was audible. Daniel’s face drained of color.
And in that moment, I knew—this was only the beginning.
Part Two:
The silence that followed my daughter’s words was heavier than any I’d ever felt. The courtroom, a place where voices had battled for months—lawyers, witnesses, accusations—was suddenly still. You could hear the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the shuffle of someone shifting uncomfortably in the gallery.
But no one spoke. Not even the judge.
All eyes were fixed on Lily. My little girl, standing there with her braids and her stuffed rabbit, looking smaller than I’d ever seen her but somehow braver than everyone else in the room.
Daniel’s smirk had vanished, replaced by a tightness in his jaw. His lawyer shifted in his seat, clearing his throat, clearly preparing an objection. But Lily’s words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to wave away.
Judge Holt leaned forward, his gravelly voice softer now.
“Lily… what do you mean, he scares you?”
She swallowed, her fingers gripping the rabbit’s worn ear. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t back down.
“When people come over, Daddy smiles. He buys me toys. He tells me he loves me. But when the doors close, it’s different.”
The room was so quiet you could hear the scratch of the judge’s pen stopping mid-sentence.
“He yells,” Lily continued, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He throws things. He… he locks me in my room when I cry.”
A ripple of gasps broke through the courtroom. Daniel’s lawyer half rose, ready to interject, but the judge raised a hand sharply, silencing him.
Daniel’s face turned a shade of red I hadn’t seen in years. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting between the judge and his daughter as if he could will her into silence.
But Lily wasn’t done.
Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, her rabbit shaking in her grip.
“He told me if I told anyone, he’d take me away from Mommy forever.”
I felt my chest cave in. Tears burned my eyes, but I forced myself not to move, not to cry, not to ruin this moment with my desperation. I wanted to run to her, shield her from the weight of the truth she was carrying. But this was her moment. Her voice.
Judge Holt’s expression shifted, his stern face softening, his brows knitting together in something almost like pain.
“And your mother?” he asked gently. “How does she treat you?”
Lily’s gaze flicked to me. My breath caught as her little voice, trembling but fierce, filled the room.
“Mommy never hurt me. She sings to me when I have nightmares. She makes pancakes with smiley faces. She tells me I’m safe… and I feel safe with her.”
She turned then, locking her eyes with mine. Her voice broke into a whisper that cracked my heart wide open.
“I want to stay with Mommy. Please.”
The silence after her words was suffocating. Even the sound of papers being shuffled stopped. Daniel’s lawyer sat frozen, his jaw tight. Daniel himself shifted in his seat, glaring at his daughter as though he couldn’t believe she’d betrayed him. His family, sitting behind him, looked everywhere but at Lily, their smug confidence crumbling.
The judge removed his glasses slowly, setting them on the desk. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He simply studied Lily, then me, then Daniel.
Finally, his voice came, low and steady.
“Thank you, Lily. That was very brave.”
Her small shoulders sagged with relief.
The opposing lawyer scrambled, his voice cracking with forced calm.
“Your Honor, with all due respect, children are impressionable. They exaggerate. They—”
“Enough,” the judge snapped, his gavel striking once with a sharp crack. The sound echoed like thunder. “The testimony of this child cannot be ignored.”
My heart leapt, but I forced myself to stay still. Don’t celebrate yet, Sarah. Not until the words are final.
Daniel’s lawyer sat back down, defeated, his papers limp in his trembling hands. Daniel, however, leaned forward, his eyes burning holes into me. His lips parted as if he might protest, but no words came. For once, Daniel Whitaker had nothing to say.
The judge looked at me, then at Lily, then finally back at Daniel.
“This court,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “rules in favor of the mother. Custody is hereby granted.”
The sound that left my chest was half sob, half scream. My hands flew to my face as tears spilled freely. Months of fear, exhaustion, and desperate hope poured out of me in a single broken breath.
Daniel shot to his feet, his face twisted with rage. “This is a mistake!” he barked. “She’s manipulating her! This is—”
“Sit down, Mr. Whitaker,” the judge ordered sharply.
The bailiff stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Daniel’s shoulder. For a moment, I thought he might lash out, but then his shoulders dropped in defeat, his mouth snapping shut as he sank back into his chair.
And then Lily ran.
She ran straight into my arms, nearly knocking me backward with the force of her hug. I caught her, holding her so tightly I thought I might never let go. Her little voice whispered against my ear, “Did I do okay, Mommy?”
I kissed her hair, tears soaking into her braids.
“You did more than okay, baby. You saved us.”
The courtroom faded away—Daniel’s rage, the lawyer’s pale face, the judge’s stern expression. None of it mattered. All that mattered was Lily in my arms, safe, warm, mine.
When we finally walked out of that courtroom, hand in hand, the sunlight hit us like a blessing. The weight that had been crushing me for months lifted. People stared as we passed—the mother and daughter who’d just won the impossible fight. But I didn’t care.
The battle hadn’t been about money, or reputation, or even legal rights. It had been about truth. And it was Lily, my brave 8-year-old, who had the courage to speak it when no one else would.
That day, I realized something I’d never forget: sometimes the smallest voice in the room carries the biggest truth.
And in our case, it was the voice of a little girl in a yellow dress, holding a stuffed rabbit, that silenced all the lies.
Part Three:
The courthouse doors swung open, and for the first time in months, I felt the warmth of sunlight without the weight of dread pressing down on me. Lily’s small hand gripped mine tightly, her stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm as though it, too, had just fought a war.
We stepped onto the steps, where reporters and curious onlookers had already gathered. Cameras clicked, voices called out questions—questions I had no intention of answering. I bent low, shielding Lily with my arm. She pressed her face into my side, her braids brushing against my blouse.
“Keep moving,” Franklin whispered, guiding us past the crowd toward the street where my car waited.
Daniel’s voice cut through the noise. I turned just in time to see him pushing through the reporters, his lawyer tugging at his sleeve, trying to hold him back. His face was flushed, his eyes wild.
“You’ll regret this, Sarah!” he shouted. “You think you’ve won, but this isn’t over!”
The reporters erupted with excitement, microphones thrusting toward him, but I felt Lily flinch against me. Her grip tightened, and that was all I needed to know. I scooped her up, despite her being eight and taller now, and carried her down the last few steps. My heart hammered, but I kept my face forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
Inside the car, the noise of the world dulled. Franklin exhaled, wiping his forehead. “He’s furious. Expect him to appeal, or at the very least, make noise about it.”
I nodded numbly, stroking Lily’s hair as she rested against me. “Let him make noise,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “The truth is out now.”
Still, a tremor of unease rippled through me. Daniel wasn’t the type to lose gracefully. I knew him well enough to know this fight wasn’t truly finished—it would just take another form.
That night, after the chaos of the day settled, Lily and I sat on the couch in our small apartment. The TV played softly in the background, but neither of us paid much attention. She leaned against me, her rabbit between us, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“Mommy?” she murmured.
“Yes, baby?”
“Did I make Daddy mad?”
The question sliced through me. I turned, pulling her into my lap, brushing back her braids so I could see her eyes. “Sweetheart, you were brave. You told the truth. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But…” her voice quivered, “he looked at me like… like he wanted to yell.”
I kissed her forehead, holding her close. “He can’t hurt you now. Not anymore. Do you hear me? You’re safe.”
Her small arms wrapped around my waist, and she buried her face in my chest. “I just want him to stop being scary.”
I swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “Me too, baby. Me too.”
The days that followed were a strange mix of relief and tension. On paper, I had won. The custody order was official, signed by the judge, stamped with the seal of the court. Lily was mine, legally and permanently.
But life doesn’t tie up neatly with legal paperwork.
Daniel tried to call—dozens of times, at first. I blocked his number. Then he sent emails. Long, rambling rants about how I’d brainwashed Lily, how the court was biased, how he would “fix this.” I forwarded them all to Franklin, who told me to save everything, no matter how small.
But the real challenge wasn’t Daniel’s noise. It was Lily’s healing.
Every night, she still carried her rabbit to bed, clutching it like a lifeline. She still startled at loud noises, still asked me to check the locks twice before she could fall asleep. She still had nightmares.
And I—well, I was learning to breathe again. Slowly, carefully.
One evening, about a week after the verdict, Lily sat at the kitchen table, drawing with her crayons. I was washing dishes when she said, almost casually, “Mommy, I want to draw a new picture of our family.”
I dried my hands quickly and joined her at the table. She’d already started: two figures holding hands—me and her. She’d drawn herself in her yellow dress, her rabbit clutched tight in her arms. I was beside her, smiling.
I watched, my chest tightening as she added the sun overhead, flowers at our feet, a little house behind us.
And this time, there was no shadowy figure in the corner.
“See?” she said, her voice light, almost proud. “Just us.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I smiled. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart.”
She leaned over and pressed the picture into my hands. “You can keep it in your purse, like the other one. Only this one is happy.”
I hugged her tightly, my throat too thick for words.
Still, Daniel lingered at the edges of our lives. He showed up at Lily’s school one afternoon, trying to pick her up despite the custody order. The school called me immediately, and I rushed there, my heart pounding with panic. The principal stood firm, refusing to release Lily to him, and by the time I arrived, Daniel had stormed off, furious but empty-handed.
That night, Lily cried herself to sleep, whispering, “What if he comes again?”
I held her until she drifted off, whispering promises I prayed I could keep. I would fight for her. I would protect her. I would never let him take her again.
The court had given me custody. But keeping Lily safe—that was a battle I’d fight every day for the rest of my life.
Weeks turned into months. Slowly, life began to find a rhythm again. Lily joined a dance class. She made a new friend at school. She laughed more, sang more, slept more peacefully.
And me? I found a part-time job at a local bookstore, a place filled with quiet corners and kind people. It wasn’t glamorous, but it gave me something Daniel could never take away: independence.
One evening, as I tucked Lily into bed, she looked up at me, her eyes shining in the dim light.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“You’re not scared anymore, are you?”
Her question caught me off guard. I thought about Daniel’s rage, his threats, his endless attempts to control me. And yes, a part of me would always be afraid of what he might do next. But when I looked at her—safe, smiling, strong—I realized something.
“No,” I said softly. “Not anymore.”
She smiled, clutching her rabbit. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not either.”
I kissed her cheek and whispered, “That’s my brave girl.”
As I turned off the light and closed her door, I realized that while the courtroom had given me custody, it was Lily’s courage that had given us freedom.
Part Four:
For a while, it felt like Daniel had vanished from our lives. After his failed attempt at Lily’s school, after the emails Franklin collected as evidence, the storm seemed to quiet. Lily relaxed more. She slept through the night without waking me in terror. She hummed while brushing her teeth, danced through the living room with her stuffed rabbit.
I should have known the silence wouldn’t last.
It was a Saturday afternoon in late spring when it happened. Lily and I were in the park, the one with the tall oak trees and the swings she loved. She was pumping her legs high, calling, “Look, Mommy, I’m flying!” I laughed, clapping as I pushed her higher. For the first time in so long, we felt like any other mother and daughter enjoying the sunshine.
Then I saw him.
Daniel.
He stood just beyond the playground fence, hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes fixed on Lily.
My stomach dropped, my chest tightening as though invisible hands squeezed the air from my lungs.
I froze. Should I scream? Should I run? Should I grab Lily and leave immediately? My mind spun, but my body acted before I could think. I caught the swing, pulling it to a stop midair. Lily frowned.
“Mommy, why’d you stop?”
“Come on, baby,” I said quickly, scooping her off the swing. “We’re going home.”
She followed my gaze—and her little body went rigid. She saw him too.
Daniel smiled, a slow, calculated curve of his lips. He raised his hand in a mock wave.
I turned on my heel, clutching Lily’s hand, walking as fast as I could without breaking into a run. My heart hammered so loudly I could barely hear her trembling voice.
“Mommy, is he gonna take me?”
“No, baby,” I whispered fiercely. “He can’t. Not anymore.”
That night, after Lily finally fell asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with Franklin on the phone.
“He can’t be at the park like that, Franklin,” I said, my voice sharp with panic. “He was watching her. Staring at her.”
“Did he approach you? Say anything?”
“No. But he was there. And Lily saw him.”
Franklin sighed. “This is what I warned you about. Men like Daniel don’t walk away. They linger. They test boundaries. But remember this—he’s already on thin ice. If he violates the custody agreement in any way, the court won’t take it lightly. Keep documenting everything.”
I rubbed my temples. “I don’t want to just ‘document.’ I want him gone. I want him out of our lives.”
“I know, Sarah. But the law moves slow. Until he crosses a clear line, we can’t push harder.”
I hung up, staring at the dark window, my reflection staring back with tired, frightened eyes.
The shadow was still there.
A week later, the line was crossed.
It was evening, and Lily was in the bath, singing softly to her toys. I was in the kitchen, drying dishes, when a knock rattled the front door.
Not a neighborly knock. Hard. Demanding.
I froze, dish towel in my hand. Slowly, I approached the door.
“Who is it?” I called, my voice steadier than I felt.
“It’s me,” came the voice I dreaded most. Daniel.
My blood turned cold. I glanced toward the hallway where Lily’s voice still floated from the bathroom. My hands shook as I locked the deadbolt tighter.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I snapped. “The court order—”
“Court order be damned,” he growled. “She’s my daughter too. You can’t keep me from her.”
“She’s not your property!” My voice cracked, fury overtaking fear. “She doesn’t belong to you!”
Silence followed, thick and dangerous. Then his voice dropped, low and venomous.
“She’ll come back to me. One way or another.”
A fist pounded against the door, making me jump. Lily shrieked from the bathroom, “Mommy!”
I ran to her, scooping her out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel. She trembled in my arms, water dripping onto the floor. The banging stopped, then the sound of footsteps retreating.
I held her close, whispering, “He’s gone, baby. He’s gone.”
But inside, I knew—he wasn’t gone. Not yet.
The police came that night after I called, their lights flashing against the walls. I showed them the custody papers, explained what happened. They filed a report, assured me they’d “speak to him.”
But I’d lived with Daniel long enough to know words wouldn’t stop him.
Two days later, Franklin filed a restraining order. It was approved. Daniel was forbidden from coming within 200 yards of us, school included.
For the first time, I felt the law on my side.
And yet, the fear still lingered. Every knock on the door made me jump. Every stranger’s face on the street made me wonder.
The final confrontation came unexpectedly.
It was late afternoon, and Lily and I were walking home from the bookstore. She skipped beside me, her rabbit bouncing against her backpack. We turned the corner onto our street—and there he was.
Daniel.
He stood at the end of the sidewalk, blocking our path. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt, his suit wrinkled as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Sarah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We need to talk.”
My grip on Lily tightened. “No, we don’t. You’re violating the order. Leave us alone.”
He took a step closer, his face twisted with desperation. “She’s my daughter. You can’t erase me from her life.”
Lily pressed against my side, whispering, “Mommy…”
I stood tall, though my knees shook. “She’s not your possession, Daniel. She’s a child. A child who told the truth. And you can’t scare her into silence anymore.”
For a moment, he just stared, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His eyes flicked to Lily—his daughter, clutching her rabbit, her little body trembling but her chin lifted just slightly, bravely.
Something in him broke then. His shoulders slumped. His hands dropped uselessly to his sides. For once, the rage gave way to something else—defeat.
Behind us, a police siren wailed. Franklin had called ahead, warning that Daniel might try something. Within moments, two officers pulled up, stepping between us.
Daniel didn’t fight this time. He just let them take him, his face pale, his eyes hollow.
I held Lily close as she whispered, “Is he gone now, Mommy?”
I kissed her forehead, my tears falling into her hair. “Yes, baby. He’s gone.”
And for the first time, I believed it.
That night, as I tucked Lily into bed, she looked up at me with her wide, steady eyes.
“You’re not scared anymore, right?”
I smiled softly, brushing her hair back. “Not anymore.”
She snuggled into her pillow, clutching her rabbit. “Me neither.”
I turned off the light, standing in the doorway for a long moment, watching her breathe peacefully.
The shadow had lingered. But tonight, it finally lifted.
Part Five:
Summer drifted into fall, and with it, the air in our lives finally cleared. The restraining order was no longer just words on paper—it was enforced, solid, real. After Daniel’s last confrontation, the police made it clear: one more violation, and he’d face jail time.
And perhaps for the first time in his life, Daniel chose silence.
The calls stopped. The emails stopped. He didn’t show up at Lily’s school, didn’t lurk outside the park, didn’t bang on our door in the middle of the night.
At first, I didn’t trust it. I kept looking over my shoulder, double-checking locks, keeping my phone clutched tight even when I slept. But as the weeks turned to months, the silence stayed.
It wasn’t freedom overnight. It was slow, careful, fragile.
But it was freedom.
One Saturday morning, Lily came into the kitchen while I was making pancakes—real pancakes, with smiley faces just the way she liked them. She set her rabbit on the table like a guest, climbing into her chair with a grin.
“Mommy,” she said, her voice light in a way I hadn’t heard in years, “can we paint my room yellow?”
I blinked, flipping the pancake. “Yellow?”
“Yeah. Like sunshine. And like my dress.” She grinned, swinging her legs. “I want it to feel happy. Not scary.”
Something warm bloomed in my chest. Yellow. Happiness. Hope.
“You know what?” I said, setting the pancake onto her plate. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
The following week, we bought paint. Bright yellow, bold and cheerful. Lily wore an old oversized T-shirt, streaked with paint splatters, as she rolled the brush across her walls. She laughed when a drop landed on her nose, smearing it across her cheek with her little fingers.
By the end of the day, her room glowed like sunlight. She stood in the middle of it, arms outstretched, rabbit in hand, spinning in circles.
“See, Mommy?” she giggled. “No shadows.”
I pressed my hand to my heart, watching her. No shadows.
I was rebuilding too. The bookstore offered me more hours, and eventually, a promotion to assistant manager. The pay wasn’t extravagant, but it was steady. More importantly, it was mine. No strings. No Daniel controlling the bank account. No fear of him cutting me off.
Each paycheck felt like another brick laid in the foundation of a new life.
At night, when Lily was asleep, I sometimes sat by the window with a cup of tea, thinking about how far we’d come. About how close I’d been to losing her forever. About how it wasn’t my voice, but hers—my brave little girl’s—that turned the tide in that courtroom.
It made me realize something: strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it comes in the smallest, softest voices.
Months later, Lily brought home an assignment from school: Write about the bravest thing you’ve ever done.
She handed it to me one evening, shyly. “Mommy, I want you to read it.”
I sat at the table, her neat little handwriting filling the page with simple, powerful words.
The bravest thing I ever did was tell the truth. I told a judge that my daddy scared me, even though he told me not to. I was really scared, but I wanted to stay safe with my mommy. When I finished, everyone was quiet, and the judge believed me. My mommy hugged me after, and I knew we were going to be okay. That was the bravest thing I ever did.
By the time I finished reading, my cheeks were wet with tears. I pulled her into my arms, kissing the top of her head.
“Oh, Lily,” I whispered. “I am so proud of you.”
She smiled against my chest. “I’m proud of me too.”
The next morning, she skipped into school, her yellow backpack bouncing, her braids swinging. She turned before going inside and waved at me, her smile wide and fearless.
And I realized something I hadn’t felt in years: peace.
Not the fragile kind that trembles at every knock on the door, but the real kind—the kind that grows, steady and strong, out of love and courage.
The shadow that had haunted us was gone.
And in its place was sunlight.
When I tucked Lily in that night, her walls glowing yellow around us, she whispered, “Goodnight, Mommy. We’re safe now.”
“Yes, baby,” I whispered back, brushing her hair from her face. “We’re safe now.”
I turned off the light, my heart finally light with certainty.
Because she was right.
We were safe.
We were free.
And we were beginning again.
✨ THE END
