“Fiona,” he pronounced, “this is a masterpiece.

Where are we going to display it?”

“On the refrigerator!” she declared.

“At the very top, so everyone who comes into the kitchen sees it first!” And there was something in that — my daughter wanting her drawing of our real home displayed in a kitchen, at the top, where everyone would see it first — that undid me quietly, and healed some last small broken thing in me, because the kitchen had been the room where the worst of it happened, and my little girl had reclaimed even that.

In our house, the kitchen was no longer a place of cold floors and locked doors and games in the dark.