In its place were voices, and footsteps, and laughter, and the small cheerful arguments of children who were finally, after everything, safe enough to be annoying.

That, I have come to think, is the truest measure of a healed child, and nobody ever puts it on the inspirational posters: not gratitude, not good behavior, not the careful auditioning Silas had done for his first months under my roof, but the ordinary, glorious freedom to be a pain in the neck.

A child who feels safe argues over hammers.

A child who feels safe rolls her eyes and bumps her brother’s shoulder and calls two people annoying in the same breath.