It was that the foundation had been rebuilt.

My daughter had relearned the first lesson, the one they tried to unteach her: that she is loved, and watched over, and that when she is hungry, someone will always, always come.

That was the whole war, in the end, and everything else, the house, the custody, the forgeries, the court, was only ever in service of it.

I did not fight to win a house.

I fought to give my daughter back her belief that the world would feed her.

And I did.

And the refrigerator, in her drawing, sits full at the center of the yard, for everyone to see.