Chapter 14: A Year
A year after the hospital call, the restriction still held. My parents had not completed the counseling path. I stopped tracking whether they might. Lily mentioned them the way children mention weather in another city—possible, distant, not responsible for her coat.
Her therapist reduced sessions to check-ins. The backpack from the foster years was replaced by one she chose in a bright, impractical color. She stopped asking permission before taking a snack from our kitchen. Small permissions, internalized. The careful eyes remained, but they no longer scanned every doorway for removal.
Daniel updated our wills and guardianship designations in a single afternoon appointment. The attorney nodded through the changes. We removed every residual name that could create confusion in an emergency. When we left the office, Daniel said, “That’s the last open edge.”
“Yes.”
May you like
At home Lily was drawing a house with four windows and a roof. She colored the door blue and said, without looking up, “This door only opens for us.”
I sat on the floor beside her and agreed.
