Brian was standing beside us.

His eyes were wet.

He knelt so he could look at her face and told her he was grateful she’d told us what she was afraid of, and sorry he’d taken so long to understand.

“I know, Daddy,” she said.

“You’re better at listening now.”

He laughed, though he was crying.

Later, when everyone had gone outside to watch the snow, I stood in the kitchen holding the clay star.

A year earlier I had believed that protecting our family meant somehow keeping every person in it close enough to stay happy.