“This one’s old, Mom,” she said, calmly, matter-of-factly.

“There’s fresh ones in the fridge.” And she dropped the old bread in the trash without a second thought, because she no longer needed to hoard it, because she finally believed me.

“There always will be,” I told her.

Meanwhile, I returned to my work at the local hospital, declining overnight shifts so I could be home with my daughter.

George’s supervised visits grew sparse; he struggled to keep up the required court fees and monitoring costs.