Her nursing textbooks on the shelf.
A little sign by the door that said, You are safe here.
I helped her hang curtains on a Saturday afternoon, and when we were done, Emily stood in the middle of her living room and just smiled.
“It’s mine,” she said.
“It is.”
“He’s never been here.”
“No.”
“He doesn’t even know where it is.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
She turned to me, her eyes bright.
“I did it, Mom.”
“You did.”
“I’m really okay.”
“You really are.”
She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.
And when she pulled back, she was crying.
But this time, it wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t grief.
It was relief.
Pure, shining, hard-won relief.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For seeing me that night. Under the table. For not letting me stay.”
I cupped her face in my hands.
“I will always see you, Emily. Always.”
She nodded, her tears spilling over.
And then she smiled.
A real smile.
The kind I hadn’t seen in over a year.
The kind that told me my daughter was finally, finally home.
