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Six months later, my parents sold their large house for much less than they wanted and moved into a small apartment in a different part of the city. They did not end up on the street, they did not starve, and nothing truly tragic happened to them. They just had to live without the comfort I had paid for and without the reputation they had ruined themselves.
Abigail, on the other hand, began to heal. We took her to therapy, even though at first she said she did not need it. Little by little, she stopped asking if she had ruined the vacation. She stopped sleeping with her backpack right next to her pillow. She stopped flinching every time my cell phone rang.
One Friday afternoon, Mark and I gave her a surprise. “Pack your suitcase,” I told her, “because we are going to the beach.”
She remained perfectly still. “Are we going with my grandparents?”
“No, my love, it is just going to be us.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but this time they were not tears of fear. At the airport, she held my hand tightly as we walked to the terminal. On the plane, she felt a little bit dizzy during the takeoff, and she looked at me with a frightened expression, as if she were expecting someone to get angry at her for being human.
I took out a small bag, gave her some water, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Just breathe, because it is okay. I am here for you.”
Then she finally understood. Not all mistakes are punished. Not all tired bodies are a nuisance. Not all adults give up on you.
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