Her bright blue eyes met mine, and they were full of nothing but pure, uncomplicated, innocent joy, the joy of a child who is safe, and loved, and has never known a single unhappy day, and never will if I have anything to say about it.

This was what I had protected, I understood, watching her play.

Not a house, not a marriage, not an image.

Her.

This small, giggling, perfect person, who would grow up in a home full of jasmine and light instead of cologne and lies, and who would never know, unless I chose to tell her someday, how close her father had come to poisoning the very beginning of her life.

I noticed, in those first months of peace, a strange thing about the tension that had left the house, which was that I had not fully known it was there until it was gone.