“Kate.”
The word felt unreal.
Collins nodded.
“And possibly your ex-wife depending on what else we uncover.”
The room went silent.
I should have felt victorious.
Instead I felt tired.
Deeply tired.
Because none of this should have happened.
Because my daughter was still sleeping in a hospital bed.
Because justice doesn’t erase fear.
It only acknowledges it.
Three months later, Lily finally came home.
The day she walked through my front door carrying her favorite stuffed rabbit, the entire house felt brighter.
Friends decorated the porch.
Neighbors brought food.
Even the mail carrier left a small welcome-home card.
Lily smiled more that day than I had seen in months.
That night, after everyone left, she sat beside me on the couch.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Are the bad people gone?”
Children ask impossible questions in simple ways.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“The people who hurt you can’t hurt you anymore.”
She considered that.
Then nodded.
Satisfied.
Children don’t need perfect answers.
They need safe ones.
