And in the morning, and every morning after, the light would still be there — not the dramatic light of a rescue or a verdict, but the ordinary light of a safe house at breakfast, which is the light I have come to treasure most of all.

Because I understand now that the grand moments, the courtroom and the custody decree and the day we drove away, were never really the point.

They were only what cleared the ground.

The point is the ordinary light that comes after: the light in a kitchen where a child’s drawing hangs at the top of the refrigerator, the light left on in a hallway all night so no one is ever in the dark, the light of a Tuesday morning with three daughters arguing cheerfully over cereal and a golden dog underfoot.

I spent ten years in trauma rooms learning to fight for people’s lives in their worst moments.