With the recovered insurance money I founded Three Fireflies House, a nonprofit providing housing, legal aid, and financial counseling for domestic workers and mothers escaping abuse.

Richard donated medical and legal support and wanted the organization to carry my name. I named it after my daughters instead — because even on the darkest nights, they never stopped shining.

Our home changed slowly. Crayon drawings covered the refrigerator. Small shoes collected by the front door. Music moved through the hallways. Lily eventually learned the lullaby I used to sing to her in whispers beside a washing machine, and one evening Richard accompanied her on the piano.

Watching them, I understood something. For years I’d believed strength meant suffering in silence. Later I’d believed love meant leaving before I ruined someone else’s life.

Both of those were wrong. Sometimes strength is asking for help. And real love doesn’t ask you to disappear — it asks you to stay, and to choose each other honestly.

One summer evening, while our daughters chased fireflies across the backyard, I asked Richard whether he regretted the six words that changed all our lives.