There was no peril to narrate because my mother had removed the peril days before I knew it existed.

That is what it means to be protected by someone who does not quit: the disaster that was aimed at you is quietly dismantled before it can land, and all you are left with is the ordinary fear of a hard day and the extraordinary fact of being held through it.

I do not remember much of the hours that followed.

I remember her hand on my face.

I remember believing, for the first time, that I was safe.

And I remember waking to lavender and a heartbeat that was not mine.