One Sunday in May, you find the old wedding album in the hall closet.
You sit cross-legged on the bedroom floor while Emily naps and turn pages full of satin, smiles, relatives no longer sure what to say to either of you, and the bright young confidence of people who thought love was a shield instead of a task. For a moment grief washes over you so hard it makes your hands ache. Not grief for the man Daniel became. Grief for the years you kept handing over to the possibility that he might stop.
Then you close the album.
Not violently. Not ceremonially. Just closed. Some endings do not need fire. They just need a pair of hands willing to stop reopening the same wound to see if the past has finally decided to apologize.
By summer, Emily starts sleeping through the night again.
She stops asking if Daddy is mad. She still has supervised visits twice a month, and after each one she comes home quieter than usual, watchful around the edges, as if love has become a room with strange exits. Her child therapist teaches both of you language for things adults used to hide under “stress” and “bad temper” and “grown-up problems.” You begin learning with her.
