And then came the day he finally walked through the front door of our home, on his own two feet, unassisted.

Chloe did not run to tackle him, the way she once would have.

She stood in the entryway instead, looking at him steadily with her big brown eyes, and I understood, watching her, that my daughter needed to be certain, the way she had needed to be certain at the casket, that this was real.

Mark understood it too.

He dropped to his knees, and opened his arms wide.

“Can I get a real hug now, sweetie?” he asked.