Lily walked out beside me on her own two feet. She used a lightweight aluminum cane for a slight limp, but her spine was straight and her chin was up.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps and knelt, zipping her winter coat up to her chin against the wind, adjusting the scarf around her neck, my hands lingering on her shoulders.

“Are we finally going home now, Dad?”

“Yes, sweetie. We’re done here.”

She tilted her head, a small furrow appearing on her brow. “Which house?”

The question hit me like a physical blow. To my daughter, the idea of home had been fractured just like her ribs. It was a place where monsters lived, and where mothers closed the blinds.