My daughter, standing at that altar, was the picture of a strong, capable, admirable child.

And she was, in truth, a nine-year-old who had been robbed of her right to be nine, who had been forced by the failures of every adult in her life — her father’s betrayal, her grandmother’s coldness, and yes, my own grief-stricken absence — to become something a child should never have to become.

The room saw a hero.

I saw a casualty.

Both were real.