I thought about the little girl who once sat on a dining-room floor and offered her mother a chair she could not use.

That memory would always ache.

But it no longer contained the whole story.

The next morning, Piper helped me set our table for breakfast.

She carried the napkins.

I poured the juice.

Sunlight streamed through the window onto the blue-painted chairs.

“Mommy,” she said, climbing into her seat, “come sit by me.”

I pulled out my chair, checked that it was steady, and sat down.

This time, when my daughter reached for my hand, I could hold it.