Like two people who had stopped demanding that the future explain itself before they were willing to live it.
There would still be paperwork.
Therapy.
Questions.
Some memories would return.
Others never would.
There would be anniversaries when we missed Dorothy more sharply and days when Melissa mourned years she could not retrieve.
But there would also be spelling tests.
Birthdays.
Sunday breakfasts.
Arguments about cinnamon.
Ava growing taller.
New photographs beside the old ones.
For seven years, I thought keeping my promise to Melissa meant sending money.
Make sure Ava is safe.
I had interpreted those words as a financial obligation because money was something I knew how to provide.
But standing inside Grant Family Market one spring morning, watching my daughter help my granddaughter with homework while Calvin unpacked dinner and Maria complained about the inventory sheet, I finally understood.
Safety was not a bank transfer.
It was knowing the truth.
