Manicured gardens.

Central heating in every room.

A gourmet kitchen that was always fully stocked.

Everything about it spoke of comfort and safety and abundance.

And for years, I had let all of that expensive comfort convince me of something that was not true.

I had looked at the gates and the gardens and the warm well-appointed rooms and I had told myself that my son was safe there, that a house like that, a family like that, could keep a child safe.

I had wanted to believe it, because it was convenient to believe, because it let me work my punishing shifts without guilt.