One quiet autumn afternoon on the porch swing, with Fiona curled in my lap watching the leaves come down, she asked me a question I had been waiting a year and a half to answer.

Her therapist had taught me not to steer her away from the past when she reached for it herself, but to meet her questions with honest, gentle answers, because an honest answer takes away a memory’s power, while an avoided one leaves it strong.

So when Fiona said, softly, “Do you remember when we lived in that other house?” I kept my voice warm and steady, and I said, “I remember, sweetheart.”

She looked down at her shoes.