The first spring after the hearing, I planted tomatoes in the backyard because I needed some task that required faith in a future. Lily helped with grubby hands and serious concentration. We argued cheerfully over where the stakes should go. She named one plant Gerald for reasons she refused to explain. Mrs. Peaches lounged nearby in the sun and judged our gardening choices.
Sometimes healing looks like courtroom orders and therapy forms. Sometimes it looks like dirt under your nails and your child laughing because the hose sprayed your shoes.
By summer, Lily’s laugh had begun to come back in pieces.
Not all at once. First it returned in short bursts when cartoons surprised her. Then while making pancakes shaped like stars. Then while running through the sprinkler in our yard with Janet’s twins. One evening I heard her singing to herself in the bathtub for the first time in months and had to sit down on the floor outside the bathroom door because relief can hit the body almost as violently as grief.