“Because yellow is safe.”

I sat beside her. Children remember in their own way. They may lose the order of events, but they remember how a room felt. Sabina remembered a hallway, raised voices, a drive through the night, a hospital bed — and then a quieter life where her mother no longer checked the dining room before making a decision.

I kept the drawing in my desk.

Healing wasn’t immediate. Some mornings I woke with anger still in me. Some evenings I replayed that hallway and wondered how long I might have stayed if Sabina’s fever had been lower, if Beatrix had been less obvious, if Thatcher had shown just enough concern to preserve the old life.

That possibility frightened me most — how close I’d come to confusing comfort with safety.

One spring evening, Thatcher asked to speak after returning Sabina from a supervised visit. She ran inside to show her babysitter a library book about sea turtles, leaving us on the porch under the soft light.