“He did a little,” I admitted.
She yawned. “I liked that.”
Later, after she fell asleep, I stood in the doorway of her room watching her breathe. Her rabbit was tucked under one arm. The nightlight cast a soft moon on the wall. She looked impossibly small beneath her blanket, and I felt both gratitude and shame in equal measure. Gratitude that she had saved us in a way I had not known we needed saving. Shame that she had needed to.
The next morning I called a child therapist Margaret had recommended and made an appointment.
Then I made one for myself.
Healing did not happen cleanly after that.
People like to leap from courtroom victories to montages of recovery. They imagine justice works like a snapped branch reset into place. It doesn’t. Even when you win, your nervous system remembers the losing. Your child startles at the sound of a car in the driveway. You freeze when the phone lights up with a text from the opposing attorney. You relearn the difference between peace and the temporary quiet that comes just before another demand.