“A little bit,” I said.

And then Lucia reached across the counter and took my hand in both of her small ones, and held it, and went back to studying my face to make sure I was all right.

Bryce had not held my hand in months.

My five-year-old did it without being asked.

I stood at that counter and understood, with a clarity that no argument or lawyer had given me, just what kind of home my daughters were growing up inside, and why I had to get them out of it.

Because here is the thing I could no longer pretend away: my daughters were learning.