A garden hose lies coiled beside the steps.

Someone down the street is mowing a lawn.

They are ordinary sounds, the kind that once made my body tense before I even knew why.

Some evenings I still feel afraid.

On others, I feel nothing but the warmth of my daughter’s cheek against my collarbone.

When she is old enough, I will tell her that her mother once lived in a home where love was confused with control.

I will tell her that she deserved safety before she was born, and that safety was worth fighting for.