For a year I had been told, over and over, in a hundred small ways, that the thing pressing on me was not real, was for my own good, was a seat belt, was love.

The cut chain in that paper bag was proof that it had been real.

It was the first piece of evidence I had ever been allowed to hold in my own two hands that said the thing that happened to me had actually happened.

A child who has had her memory corrected for a year does not need comfort so much as she needs proof.

He let me keep my proof.

It was the first gift he gave me that day, and it was not the last.