A year after the hearing, on a bright Saturday in May, Lily and I drove past the courthouse on our way to the farmer’s market. She recognized the building immediately.
“That’s where the judge was,” she said.
“Yes.”
She looked out the window for a moment, then said, “I’m glad I was brave that day.”
I glanced at her in the mirror. “Me too.”
She tucked a curl behind her ear with exaggerated seriousness, a gesture she’d copied from me. “I was very scared.”
“I know.”
“But I did it anyway.”
“Yes,” I said softly. “That’s what brave means.”
She thought about that, then brightened. “Can we get strawberries?”
“Absolutely.”
And somehow that felt like the whole story in miniature. Terror. Truth. Survival. Then strawberries.