One evening, I sat beside her and took her hands.
“Jessica, this is your home, and you never need my permission to rest or do whatever you want,” I told her clearly.
She slowly put down her cup.
“I know that logically, but my heart hasn’t fully registered it yet,” she admitted quietly.
“Then I am going to spend every single day helping you feel safe again, no matter how long it takes,” I promised her.
I also started attending therapy.
Protecting my family after discovering the truth didn’t erase the months when I’d ignored warning signs because doing so was easier.
I needed to understand that.
Six months later, our apartment felt like a different home.
Not because of new furniture.
Because there was noise again.
Healthy noise.
Olivia sang while drawing.
Jessica played music while making dinner.
I came home to toys scattered across the carpet, abandoned coffee cups on tables, and colorful drawings taped across the refrigerator.
