It was warm, and bright, and ours, and it had never once witnessed a single thing that would make my daughter afraid.

As we loaded the truck, Veronica walked out onto the gravel, no longer in designer clothes, no longer holding wine, clutching the court order that confirmed the transfer.

“Thomas, wait,” she said, red-eyed.

“If you aren’t even going to live here — why did you take it from me?” And I gave her the truest answer I had.

“To make sure you understand, for the rest of your life, that a roof over someone’s head must never be used to strip away their dignity.” “I’m your sister,” she whispered.

“And Hannah,” I said, “is your niece.” Veronica looked through the truck window at my daughter, sitting quietly in her seat.