So I stopped trying to talk her out of it, and I set about, instead, to out-prove it.

Every full refrigerator was a proof.

Every meal that arrived on time was a proof.

Every midnight check that found the tub still there was a proof.

Every single day that passed without hunger, without abandonment, without the terror of an empty house, was one more small deposit into the account of her trust, one more piece of evidence, laid down quietly alongside all the others, that the world could be relied upon after all.

Healing, I came to understand, is not an argument you win.