Five Christmas mornings.

First steps I had not seen and first words I had not heard.

Late-night fevers when Rosalind had been the only adult in the world.

Scraped knees, and school plays, and ten thousand ordinary, unrepeatable moments of two small lives, every one of them gone now, permanently, unrecoverable, stolen from me and from my sons by a woman who called it protecting the family.

You cannot get those back.

No amount of money or love or time going forward buys back a single morning of them.