And I had to pull the car over, because I could not drive and hear that at the same time, could not drive while I understood the full weight of what my nine-year-old had been carrying, alone, in silence, for months, while I was too consumed by my own grief to see that my child was quietly becoming her mother’s protector.

She had been nine years old, and she had appointed herself my defender, because no one else would be, and she had carried that appointment alone, in secret, all that time.

And the grief of that — not pride, grief — was the largest thing I felt in that car.

Chapter 17 — You Don’t Have to Protect Me

I turned in my seat, and I took both of my daughter’s hands in mine, and I said the most important thing I have ever said to her.

“Kelly.