The prosecutor from the altar was gone.

In her place was my nine-year-old, finally free of the thing she should never have had to carry.

She looked up at me, and gave me a warm, bright smile — a smile completely free of the weight I had watched her carry for so long.

“Mom?” she asked.

“Yes, sweetie?” “Are we going to be okay?” And I leaned down and wrapped my arms around my daughter and held her close, and I looked around the peaceful, sunlit room we had built together, and I gave her the truest answer I had.

“We’re not just going to be okay, Kelly,” I said.