Then I remembered a simple thing: the person who struck me had damaged that family long before I sought help.

I had not caused the harm by refusing to hide it.

One sunny Saturday, I took the bus to the old neighborhood.

I stood outside the Columbus apartment building where I’d raised Daniel and looked up at the window of our former living room.

The paint was different, and someone had hung bright curtains.

A child laughed somewhere upstairs.

I remembered that first winter when Daniel was three, when the heat failed and we wore hats to bed.

I’d been exhausted and frightened, but I’d still found a way to make a home worth living in.