And we were free.
Sophie turned four.
Then five.
She started kindergarten, lost her first tooth, learned to ride a bike.
She was smart and kind and brave.
Everything I’d hoped she would be.
One Saturday morning, she climbed into my bed at dawn, like she always did.
“Mama,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” I murmured, pulling her close.
She snuggled against me, warm and small.
“I had a dream,” she said.
“Good or bad?”
“Good. We were flying.”
“Flying?”
“Yeah. Like birds. We were flying over the mountains, and everything was beautiful.”
I kissed the top of her head, my heart full.
“That sounds perfect.”
“It was.” She yawned. “Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I’m glad we’re a family.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“Me too, Sophie. Me too.”
She fell back asleep in my arms, her breathing soft and even.
And I lay there, holding my daughter, watching the sunrise through the window.
There had been a time when I’d fallen through the sky, certain I was going to die.
A time when I’d lost everything I thought I had.
A time when I’d been so broken I didn’t know if I’d ever be whole again.
But I’d survived.
I’d fought. I’d rebuilt. I’d healed.
And now, here I was.
